Meet The Team
by HeavyWeaponsSpy
Summary: You've met the team.  But what happened when the team met each other for the first time?  You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll want to play TF2 some more.  May contain mild historical anachronisms.  Reviews are welcome.
1. Chapter 1: Entr'acte

"_My dreams, they're all dead and buried,_

_Sometimes I wish the sun would just explode,_

_When God comes and calls me to his Kingdom,_

_I'll take all ya sons of bitches with me when I go, whoah-e-oh-e-oh-e-oh!"_

"And that's the latest hit single from Unknown Hinson," drawled the radio announcer. "This chart-topping record went triple-platinum last week, passin' the Elvis of Country's previous hit "She Weren't Wearin' Nothing But Her Boots," truly amazing. You're listenin' to KDZW Teufort, home of the Scorpions… Now here's an old favorite from our ol' pal Johnny Cash…"

The radio announcer's tinny voice echoed off the complex, a sprawling conglomeration of wood and concrete, the once brilliant red paint now faded to a rusty pink by the merciless sun. The desert stretched as far as the eye could see, cracked earth broken up only by the occasional cactus and Joshua tree, the only sound the melancholy cry of the hunting hawk. It was an unforgiving and lonely land, and the radio's mechanical voice was swallowed up by the vast silence of it all.

In such a place, it would have been easy to forget that civilization still existed, to think that the sprawling complex was merely a remnant of a long-extinct humanity left untouched by nuclear fire, were it not for the small but exceedingly well maintained highway running outside the complex. In one direction, the road led to the town of Teufort, the closest population center within 30 miles. In the other direction lay the Badlands, and perhaps Mexico. No one within living memory had ever ventured far enough along the road to find out.

A short, stocky man, wearing overalls, a construction worker's helmet, and tinted goggles stood in the shade of one of the larger wooden buildings. He leaned against the wall, next to a door marked DELIVERIES ONLY, and a large sign painted on said wall reading R.E.D. - Reliable Excavation and Demolition – Redmond Mann Says "Yes We Can!" He took a swig from a bottle of beer – "Red Shed – Only the Best!" – and studied the horizon. The cold bottle was beginning to sweat, and he wiped it on his pants absentmindedly.

"_When I was just a baby,_

_My mother told me, "Son,"_

A small plume of dust appeared on the horizon, shimmering in the heat radiating from the road. The man leaned forward, squinted, and lifted his goggles to get a better view, revealing eyes as clear blue as the desert sky. Upon closer inspection, it was not a cloud of dust, but steam.

"_Always be a good boy,"_

Along the lonely road outside the complex, a small blue car was barreling at breakneck speed, gushing steam like a wounded locomotive.

"Hmmm," said the Engineer. "This oughta be interesting."

"_Don't ever play with guns…"_

* * *

><p>"<em>But I shot a man in Reno,<em>

_Just to watch him die,_

_When I hear that whistle blowin'_

_I hang my head and cry…"_

"I hate this friggin' song," whined Scout, for the 207th time. He began to bang his head against the window in time with the music. "Bored, bored, bored, bored-"

"Honey, do me a favor and shut the hell up," snapped his mother. "And for the love of Joe DiMaggio, putcha seat belt on."

"BOOOOOOREDDD…" moaned Scout, squirming in his seat like a two-year-old. "Are we THERE yet?"

"You better hope so, or else we'll be walkin' the rest of the way," she replied, glancing briefly at the dashboard. The engine heat gauge had been firmly stuck at "H" for over an hour, and the copious amounts of steam now pouring out from under the hood suggested the vehicle's imminent demise. "Why dontcha, I dunno, look out the window or something?"

Scout groaned in frustration, and flipped upside down in his seat. "Man, I can't wait to get out there and meet the other guys. It's gonna be wicked sick."

His mother frowned. "I hope you're not getting ya self worked up for nothin', Richie. Your brother Andy was a security guard for a few months at the dockyards, and he got bored stiff."

"Yeah, but I'm gettin' paid ten times the amount he was! 'Sides, this isn't some lame-ass grind. These guys are mercenaries! It's gonna be awesome!"

"I still think ya need to be careful. I don't know why they chose ya, but the amount they're payin, I'm not gonna question it. Just promise me you won't get hurt, or do anything stupid. You're a man now, Richie, and you're gonna have to make your own decisions-"

"Yeah, yeah, sure thing, Mom," said Scout absentmindedly. He was fantasizing about what his teammates would be like.

There'd probably be some sort of stealth and camouflage expert, a raspy-voiced no-nonsense mercenary with some awesome codename like "Snake." "Nggh, Scout," he'd growl, "Excellent work today. You can wear my headband if you like."

And there'd probably be an ultra-cool badass with awesome sunglasses, a blond crewcut, and a snappy one-liner for every time he killed someone. "Hey, kid," he'd say, cigar clamped between his teeth. "Wanna learn how to pick up strippers?"

And some samurai dude who'd also be, like, a martial arts expert and ninja, and would have all sorts of wise Chinesey sayings, and teach Scout karate, and-

"Look honey, I think that's it!" exclaimed his mother, pointing to the large complex crouched on the horizon.

It was at this point that the car's engine burst into flames.

* * *

><p>Engineer gasped with shock as the little blue car was enveloped in a sheet of flame; smoke obscuring the windshield, the vehicle swerving wildly from side to side. He dashed inside the building to retrieve the fire extinguisher at the top of the stairs, and then ran back outside. "Hold on, fellas, I'm coming!"<p>

* * *

><p>"Ohgodohgodohgodohgod-" screamed Scout as his mother fought for control of the steering wheel. "I'm still a virgin, I can't die a virgin, nonononono-"<p>

The Ford swerved off the road towards the complex, taking out part of a barbed-wire fence as it went. Brakes squealing, it came to a halt right outside the door. Scout leapt from the vehicle as soon as it stopped, still howling with fear, as a man in a hard hat ran past him with a fire extinguisher, hosing the car down with frigid white dust. The man grabbed the hood of the car with his gloved hand, throwing it upward, and began dousing the blaze that rose up to meet him. With a practiced hand, he continued to spray the engine until it was completely extinguished. Satisfied, he pulled the driver's side door open and helped Scout's mother out.

"You sure are lucky, ma'am," the man remarked. "Are you feelin' alright?"

"I… think I'm ok, thanks," she replied, still slightly in shock. "My son – is he still in the car – "

"No ma'am, he's right over here. A bit shaken up, but he'll be alright."

The man gestured to Scout, who was now sucking his thumb.

"Now that I take a look at it, y'all weren't in any real danger." He peered into the engine compartment with great interest. "Looks like the radiator'd run dry, which caused the engine to overheat, and the combination of some exposed wiring in the electromotor coil and some oil leakage started a fire. Now I'd have to do a little examining to find out whether…"

He continued to ramble on about the intricacies of engine fires, while Scout found himself embraced by his mother.

* * *

><p>Several minutes later, after the man had finished his monologue, mother and son had recovered completely.<p>

Well, the mother had, anyway. Once he had realized the scene he'd made, Scout's face had acquired the redness of a freshly boiled lobster, and the grimace of someone passing a kidney stone. Mama Scout, on the other hand, was now chatting up their rescuer like they were old friends.

"The name's Dell Conagher, ma'am, but you can just call me Dell. Pleasure to meet you and your boy." The man tipped his hard hat, revealing a clean-shaven dome that glinted fiercely in the desert sun. "What's your name, son?"

Scout crossed his arms even tighter against his chest. "Scout," he muttered, avoiding eye contact.

"Richie!" Scout's mom scolded. "What's the matta with you? I raised ya ta have manners, and now ya's acting like a three-year old! Mista Conagher, I am SO sorry about his behavior-"

"It's quite alright, ma'am," said the man kindly. "I reckon he's just feeling a mite like a fish out of water right now. Once he gets settled in he'll warm up in no time."

Scout snorted in derision. No way he was gonna pal around with this goofy old hayseed. He was probably the janitor or something. What a dumbass. He looked to his ma, expecting another outburst, but none came.

What he saw instead was worse. Aw, crap.

"Such a gentleman – so polite!" She sashayed over to the man, brushing an imaginary strand of hair from her forehead. "Are you gonna be workin' with Richie here?"

"Yup," said the man. "I'm the Engineer of the team. I guess you could say I'm a master of all things mechanical." He smiled at his own joke. Scout's ma giggled girlishly and moved closer, her eyes gleaming.

Scout felt ill. But he couldn't tear his eyes away.

"I bet you're a real handy fella to have around the house…" Scout's ma purred, resting her hand on the Engineer's shoulder.

Scout made a noise like a mouse being stepped on.

"And I just a-dore a man who's good with his hands…"

Her own hand slipped down to caress Engineer's thigh. Beads of perspiration trickled down Scout's neck.

"Yup," said the Engineer, completely oblivious. "My Sallie says one of the reasons she married me was 'cause she'd never need a handyman again-"

"Your what?' Scout's ma interjected, freezing in mid-stroke.

"My wife, Sallie Mae. Prettiest little thing you ever did see, now." He shook his head fondly. "Keeps the house cleaner'n a whistle, has a real way with animals and little ones, and bakes the sweetest apple pie you ever tasted. Mother of my children, an' queen of my heart."

"Um…" mother and son said in unison.

"Y'all wanna see a picture?"

Scout's expression was peculiar to say the least, and his mother wasn't doing much better.

"Here we are," said the Engineer, pulling a well-worn photo from his wallet. The picture showed a comely red-haired matron in a checked gingham dress, embracing two adorable children, a boy and a girl, both with piercing blue eyes. It was as if the ideal of Texan family values had manifested itself in physical form.

"And a third one on the way," beamed the Engineer with paternal pride, as he stowed away the photograph. "You ever find a girl like her, son, you marry her right quick."

Scout's ma was the first to break the seemingly endless silence that followed. "Well, Mista Conagher-"

"Dell, if you please-"

"-I'm sure you'll get along just fine with Richie here. He could use a strong male role model in his life." She laughed nervously, fumbling with her purse. Engineer looked puzzled, and began to open his mouth when his watch suddenly began beeping.

"Good night Irene!" exclaimed the Engineer. "I plumb forgot! You'll have to pardon me, ma'am, but I've got baked goods a-burnin'! Pleasure meetin' you all!' And he scrambled like a startled steer into the building. Scout's ma watched him go, and Scout could have sworn on a stack of baseball cards that she muttered something under her breath about "all the good ones being either married or gay." She turned back to him, having regained her composure.

"You said there were others, right?"

"Yeah…" said Scout, knowing what she was thinking. His facial expression must have given him away, because she suddenly scowled at him.

"Richie, I don't appreciate 'cha attitude about this. Mommy's got needs too, ya know. And I didn't keep my figure and my looks after eight rowdy boys only ta let it go ta waste. That's a lotta hard work, you know."

Scout looked away. His mother softened.

"Oh, baby, don't look so down."

Scout didn't move.

"I know ya wish you had more attention from me with ya seven crazy brothers and all."

Scout waited.

"And I know ya wish you'd seen more of ya dad growin' up. God knows, I do too, even if the lousy lunk ran out on me. You hafta understand, Richie - no matta who ya see me with, I always love ya, and always will."

She gave a wry smile. "Even if ya are a real pain in the ass sometimes."

Scout tried hard to suppress his own grin. "Thanks a bunch, ma."

She responded by pecking him on the cheek. "Ew! Gross!"

Scout's mother rolled her eyes. "Come on, let's get the bags outa the car before the whole thing catches on fire. Sure hope that Mr. Conagher fella knows his way around a Ford…"


	2. Chapter 2: Legendary Bromance

**Author's note: **Well, this story has received a positive reception so far, so I'm going to continue it. Don't worry, there'll be plenty of Scout and Scout Ma, but do remember there are quite a few other characters as well. That being said, enjoy.

* * *

><p>"<em>The papers, Herr Doktor, the papers!" screamed the SS Lieutenant. "Leave everything else behind, there is no time!"<em>

"_To hell with you!" shouted the doctor, as he ran about the room, stuffing everything he could fit into his oversized suitcase. A white dove fluttered madly about the room, squawking. "What about my experiments, my serums, my trophies? I can leave none of it behind!"_

_A distant explosion sounded above them, and the room shook, dislodging books from shelves. The Lieutenant began grabbing stacks of paper at random and shoving them into the sack he carried with him. Shots and rifle fire echoed from outside._

"_They don't matter anymore! The Allies have already breached the compound perimeter, and Stuttgart is being leveled as we speak! We must evacuate at once!"_

"_Then there is still time!" The doctor grabbed the dove, shoving it into a birdcage. A long burst of heavy automatic fire rang out, followed by several screams. _

"_Are you mad?" screamed the Lieutenant, purple with anger. "You dare disobey a direct order? The survival of the Third Reich is at stake, and you pause for souvenirs? Project Valkyrie has been initiated! The Fuhrer is already en route to Moonbase Alpha!" He drew his Luger from his holster. "And your research is coming along, with or without you!"_

"_I care not for your precious Fuhrer or the Reich! My work is far more important than your petty political agenda!"_

"_TREASON!" howled the Lieutenant, spittle spraying from his lips. He leveled the gun at the Doctor's head and-_

"Now arriving at Teufort Junction. Next stop, Badwater Station."

Medic awoke with a start, clawing at the air. Where – where was he – what was-

Oh yes. He was on a train.

Somewhere in the American Southwest.

On his way to a new career.

It was the 1960's, not the 40's.

And no one here had any idea who he was.

The thought both discouraged and comforted him. He patted the seat next to him and felt his trusty doctor's bag. Well, everything seemed to be in order…

The train slowed down as it pulled into the station, and Medic, still disoriented, grabbed his bag and moved to the door.

Oh, what he wouldn't give for a nap without vivid dreams. Perhaps this new job would be so tiring, he would simply fall asleep at the end of the day – in a nice, proper lab, not some dingy basement. Or maybe instead, he'd stay up late with a foamy mug of beer, discussing the latest scientific and medical advancements with his fellows, who would all be amazed at his incredible brilliance. Oh, the possibilities!

Medic stepped off the train into the hot sun, the bright glare off the corrugated tin roof of the station blinding him momentarily. He sneezed reflexively, missed the step, and stumbled forward only to trip and sprawl awkwardly on the dusty ground. His glasses bounced off his face, and his teeth clicked together painfully.

"Welcome to Teufort, mister."

Medic picked up his glasses, cleaned them fastidiously with a little handkerchief he always kept in his jacket pocket, and looked to see who was addressing him.

"Don't know 'bout you'n, but 'round these parts we use our eyes to see where our legs are goin'."

An ancient old man sat in a rocking chair, spittoon by his side, and a slouch hat covering his aged pate. His skin looked as weathered as his chair, and Medic cringed inwardly as he spat tobacco juice from the wad in his cheek. Such foolishness, to willingly damage one's body without any palpable benefit… He sat up, trying to regain his composure.

"You ain't from around here, are ya?" remarked the old man. "Betcher one of them foreign fellers what does all the fightin' local."

Medic opened his mouth and tried to say several things at once, but what came out instead sounded like "Untergluangerburnch."

"Damn, you sound like a Kraut! Hell, I bet you are a Kraut. I remember ya's in the war. Killed quite a few of you, I did. Mean sonsabitches, with them weird pointy helmets. Nice beer, though."

"I am not a 'Kraut'!" exclaimed the Medic indignantly, suddenly finding his tongue. "I am a doctor und a man of science, vy are you calling me a cabbage?"

"Hey! You speak American after all!" cackled the old man, with wizened glee. "Don't get yer lederhosen in a twist, Kaiser Joe! You're in America now, feller, gonna have to loosen those suspenders a bit!" He slapped his hat against his knees in merriment.

Medic stood up and brushed himself off as best he could, trying to ignore this _dummkopf_. How the mighty had fallen – he, the greatest scientist of his time, being treated as a laughingstock by an _untermensch_far past his prime… And his entrance had left something to be desired…

"You said you're a doctor, right? Cause that feller over there's been settin' here since I went to the outhouse, an' that was over'n hour or two ago. You might wanta fix him up before he starts to smell." The old man pointed back to where Medic had disembarked so graciously from the train.

Medic turned to look, ready to retort that a great doctor such as he had no time to waste on a vagrant, and froze.

He had tripped over a giant, meaty hand, attached to an equally large, meaty arm.

"Big hoss, ain't he?" observed the old-timer, and whistled through his teeth. "Bet that he could eat yer outa house and home, and still want seconds. Reckon he's one of your'n? Everyone around here's got the sense to dress for the weather."

The man to whom the arm belonged was massive – there was no other word adequate to describe him. He was easily at least 7 feet tall, and his forearm muscles alone were as thick as a normal man's upper legs. He was quite stout, but there was no mistaking the immense strength his bulk concealed. Oddly enough, he was bundled up in a thick hooded parka, which concealed most of his face, and was large enough for several small children to hide in. He did not appear to be breathing.

"_Ach! Vas ist dos!_" exclaimed Medic, hurrying over to his side. "A magnificent specimen – such potential-" He put his silver pocketwatch against the man's lips, and, miracle of miracles, a faint mist appeared on the surface. "Still alive – _mein Gott_, what endurance – truly, if I had been so fortunate to haff specimens like him to work with in ze past-"

He caressed the dry, clammy skin with an air almost of adoration. "Ze power of his body, I must unlock it, oh, ze secrets to be discovered, ze punishment zis man could take-"

"Hey," said the old-timer, with a quizzical look on his face. "Ain't you gonna fix him? Thought you doctor-types had some sort of honor-bound oath, the order of the hippot-a-moose or somethin'. Don't think he's gonna last too much longer in this heat with all them clothes he got on."

"Oh. Erm, yes," said the Medic, pulled from his fantasies. He wiped the drool from his mouth. "Ah – vere is it – here we go." Rummaging through his medical bag, he pulled out a small silver flask, unscrewed the cap, and trickled a small amount of a pink substance into the enormous man's mouth. "Zat should do ze trick."

No sooner had he spoken then the giant's eyes snapped open. Gasping for air, he sat up and struggled to disentangle himself from his coat.

"Whoo-ee!" howled the old man. "That's some powerful physick you got there, Hans! Bet you could show ol' Doc Sanders a thing or two down at the dispensary!"

"Tcch, it vas nothing," replied the Medic, pleased in spite of himself. "Give me some proper equipment, und I vill vork miracles."

"Doktor."

The Medic turned to view his patient, and had to adjust his gaze upwards several degrees. The giant was now standing – no, looming over him, and the effect was rather intimidating. "You are Doktor, yes?"

"Ahh…" stammered the Medic. "Ja, I am ze Medic…"

The giant's intense stare became an immense grin. "DOKTOR SAVE HEAVY!" he roared. "Doktor is FRIEND!" And he enveloped the Medic in an immense bear hug.

"Well, I'll be. A Russkie, here in Teufort," exclaimed the old-timer. "And workin' for Uncle Sam. Now I've seen everything."

The Heavy released the Medic, who stumbled backwards. "Medic is friend," he repeated, with almost child-like pleasure. "Medic is friend." He picked up his parka and tied it around his waist, continuing to stare.

"Big feller seems to have taken a shine to ya, Kraut. Like givin' a stray dog a bone, that was. You a mercenary-type too, Russkie?"

"_Nyet_, name is not Russkie. I am Heavy Weapons Guy. Work for R.E.D., kill many cowards. Is good job for giant man," proclaimed the Heavy. "Doktor work for R.E.D. too? Work with Heavy Weapons Guy?"

"Ja, I haff accepted a contract with ze organization known as R.E.D. to provide medical services to its security personnel-"

"VERY GOOD!" boomed the Heavy. "Is good day for Heavy! Is good day for Doktor! We go together, Doktor. Good times!"

"Ah…yes, of course…" said the Medic, thinking rapidly. He had no desire to babysit this overgrown brute, whose mental capacity was evidently somewhat limited. On the other hand, the simpleton seemed to like him, and thus might be encouraged to voluntarily serve as a test subject for all kinds of lovely experiments…

"I am hungry. Is Doktor hungry? Leetle man needs to eat, be strong like Heavy!" Heavy gave the Medic a jovial slap on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him.

"HA!" crowed the old-timer. "Knew it!"

Medic ignored him. "Vell, _kamerad_, I could use some refreshment perhaps…" He turned back to the old-timer. "Ist there a beer-hall or a restaurant around?"

* * *

><p>The only food in town was at a dingy diner marked MOE'S EATS, a greasy spoon if there ever was one. Medic shuddered inwardly at the accumulated dirt on the floor as the door squeaked shut, the Heavy ducking inside behind him. Mummified fly corpses littered the windowsills, and the tables were still covered in many a remnant of a former meal. "Best grub in town!" the old-timer had proclaimed, but it was also the only grub in town.<p>

Medic slipped into a booth, and the Heavy followed suit, awkwardly squeezing in on the other side of the table. An uncomfortable silence ensued, the only noise the dull whirring of the ceiling fan.

Medic shifted his gaze around the diner, trying to avoid eye contact with the Heavy, who was once again staring directly at him. Normally, Medic was the one to intimidate by staring, but right now he felt very, very small.

"So. What happens now?" said the Heavy, breaking the ice.

"Eh?" said the Medic. "Vat do you mean? Haff you never been in a restaurant before?"

"No, I have been in eating place before. Many times. But there is no food! How does Doktor eat with no food?"

"But zhere is food here. Ve do not get it ourselves, zhey will bring it to us."

"Ah. Yes. Then what do we get?"

The door to the kitchen banged open, and a frowsy-looking waitress shuffled out, tucking a package of cigarettes back into her apron pocket. "What'll y'all have," she asked, not bothering to look up, or add any inflection to her voice.

"You are Flo?" asked Heavy, staring at her nametag.

She said nothing, but cracked her notepad expectantly.

"Flo, what is for eating today?" said the Heavy pleasantly. "Do you have sandvitch?"

"Menu's over there, hun," said Flo, now chewing on a piece of bubble gum. Medic huffed in disgust. He would take the obnoxiously cheery frauleins of a beer-hall any day over this hussy.

"I hope you have sandvitch," continued the Heavy. "I had one on train. It was most delicious! Never have I eaten something so, with so many tastes in one food!"

"Heavy, ze options are listed on zat piece of paper over zhere. Choose vat you vant from ze list," explained the Medic, with the exasperated air of someone correcting an extremely slow-witted child. " I vill haff a beer. Or root beer. Anything that comes in a sealed bottle. Ze hygiene in here is rather… absent." He glared pointedly at the waitress. She blew a bubble and popped it in indifference.

"Doktor!" gasped the Heavy in astonishment. "Look at this! So many foods! How do I choose?"

"Vatever you vant to try," grumbled the Medic. It was going to be a very, very long day, and he felt a headache coming on.

Heavy bellowed with laughter, making both Medic and Flo jump. "Everything! I will have one of everything!" He produced an enormous wad of dollar bills and slapped it on the table. "Here is one thousand dollars. Bring vodka, bring music! I pay for Doktor, too. He is friend!"

Flo scooped up the bundle of cash and disappeared back into the kitchen without a word. Medic looked at the Heavy in wordless amazement.

"_Horrisho,_" said the Heavy, and folded his arms across his gut in a self-satisfied manner. "America is funny country, yes? So much food for such leetle men. We will have feast together, to celebrate new friendship!" He paused to listen to the commotion ensuing in the kitchen.

"…And he gave you _how much_?"

"A thousand dollars! In cash, too! I think they must 'ave escaped from the funny farm or something!"

"Naw, this money's real, alright – wait, these fellas weren't foreign types, were they?"

"Dunno, I guess so… big fat guy and some German guy - I think he's one of them, whatdya'call'em, homosexual - no, uh - intellectual types…"

"Flo, you dumb broad! These guys are mercenaries! They're LOADED with the green stuff! Get your lazy butt out there and take their orders!"

"I did, Moe! But the fat guy ordered one of everything on the menu! And he wants vodka and music! Least I think that's what he said…"

"Then I'll cook him one of everything! Bring him a radio or something! Take the vodka from my stash! Quit flapping your gums! Jesus H. Tap-dancing Christ, Flo, this is enough money to buy the entire place! Now GO!"

"Something I learn before I come to America," continued the Heavy, with a smug grin on his face. "In home country, man who is big and strong is King. In America, man who spends lots of money is King. Show them you have money, Doktor. They will respect you like Heavy Weapons Guy, even though you are leetle man."

"Zat was a very profound observation, mein _kamerad_," remarked Medic, after a moment's pause.

"_Da_," replied the Heavy.

The kitchen doors swung open to reveal Flo, now carrying a bottle of beer, a large bottle of vodka, two shot glasses, and a radio, all balanced on one serving tray. She set it down on the table, and disappeared once more.

"To health," said Heavy, pouring two shots of vodka. He clinked his glass against Medic's, the cup appearing to be the size of a thimble in his giant hands, and tossed his drink back like water. Medic attempted to do the same, and spluttered and coughed.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" roared Heavy with merriment, making the light fixtures shake. "Miss Vodka, she is too strong a lady for you, yes? Stick with your old lady beer! Oh, dat slaps me on the knee!" He wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. "So glad I have met you, Doktor."

Several hours and dozens of dirty dishes later, Medic had gained a surprising amount of respect for the man who called himself Heavy Weapons Guy. He was nowhere near as dull-witted as he had first appeared ("Have Ph. D. in Russian Literature. Brought library with me. You may borrow at any time.") Much of his seeming awkwardness and slowness was due to his difficulties with the English language ("So many words that sound same, make different things! Make head hurt!") Although he was nowhere near Medic's own fantastic brilliance, his simplicity made him intelligent in his own way - and dangerous.

"Some people think they can outsmart me," he had said disdainfully, once again giving Medic his intense stare. "Maybe. Maybe."

Then he pulled a colossal cartridge from his shirt pocket and held it three inches from Medic's nose. "But I have yet to meet the man that can outsmart _boolit_," he had leered, with a terrible bloodlust in his eyes. Medic still shivered at the thought of that look.

But now here he was again, the not-so-gentle giant, happily slurping up a root beer float. "And dat is how I ended up working for R.E.D. What is your story, doktor?"

"I… ah…" Medic stalled. A sudden thought occurred to him. "I still have more questions for you, Herr Heavy. Vhen ve first met, you vere wearing a heavy parka. Surely you knew zat the temperature here vas much higher, and you vould haff taken it off long before?"

The Heavy gave an embarrassed shrug. "Zipper was stuck," he replied.

"And you did not think to slip it off over your head?"

Heavy stared at him in slack-jawed amazement, then slapped himself on the forehead and muttered something darkly in Russian.

He was saved from further humiliation as the kitchen doors swung open, and a short, balding, greasy-looking man scurried out to greet them. "Hiya chumps – uh, I mean, gentlemen and valued guests! Howja enjoy your meals?" He wiped his hands on his filthy apron. "Anything else I can getcha this evening?"

"What is meaning of chumps? I not learn this word," inquired the Heavy.

"It means – uh – like comrade! You know, it's a term of respect!"

"Actually, I think ve vere about to leave," interrupted the Medic, his lip curled in disgust. "I am not sure I haff enough anti-fungal medications left for a longer visit."

"Hey, you and me both, pal," laughed Moe, missing the point entirely. "Feel free to come back anytime. And bring your wallets – uh, I mean friends! Just call ahead the next time you're coming, big guy. Not sure I got enough left in the freezer for tonight."

Heavy's expression suddenly became frigid. "We go now," he announced abruptly, and muscled his way out of the booth and out the door, a surprised Medic trailing behind him.

"Come back soon!" called Moe from inside.

"Jesus, Dr. Frankenstein needs to keep that freak of his on a shorter leash," he muttered to himself, turning back inside. "Still, cash is always good." The door squeaked shut behind him.

Heavy stormed along in the direction of the train station, clearly upset, and muttering to himself in Russian.

Medic followed him anxiously. What had made the giant so upset so quickly? He must find out, for the sake of his research. An uncooperative subject of his size would be difficult to restrain, and potential triggers would have to be avoided at all costs…

"Herr Heavy, vat is wrong? Ze place vas filthy, I know, but you seemed to enjoy it…"

"Stupid leetle man thinks he is funny. Is not funny to me. He does not understand."

"Vhat?"

"He sees me eat, thinks it funny. Thinks I eat too much. He does not know what it is to be hungry."

"But he vas not – I – you did eat a lot of food! He is an American, zey exaggerate-"

"In Russia," the Heavy glowered, "there is never enough food. Never! And here! America is land of food! So much, people throw it away!"

His voice rose as he became more agitated. "They say, 'I not like this food, it cold! It too bland! Not good!' And back home, people line up for leetle piece of bread and soup! They not realize how lucky they are! Make fun of Heavy Weapons Guy for loving to eat, because he knows the pain of hunger!"

Then he sighed, resignedly.

"So. I work everyday, risk life for money. So family does not have to know pain of hunger. Such is the duty of a father. And nobody knows here, and they laugh because big man eats much food."

"Herr Heavy, I had no idea – you haff a family? You do not strike me as ze family type-"

"I do not appear to be many things that I am," said the Heavy solemnly. "But do not ask about them. I have told you everything you need to know."

The two stood in silence for a while, under the fierce gaze of the desert sun.

A hot, dry wind slowly picked up from the east, blowing bits of rubbish along.

A tumbleweed bounced across the Heavy's field of vision. He saw it, and smiled.

"Dat brings me a good memory," he laughed. "Why be angry at stupid leetle man? I am bigger man than him. Heavy not cry like baby with soiled diaper! I have eaten well, feel good! Is good sign to meet doktor. Is good luck to see Russian thistle. And now I help doktor."

"Vat do you mean?"

"Doktor leave bag at station. I pick up, take with me. Doktor not notice it gone?" He held out Medic's beloved doctor's bag. "Doktor help Heavy. Now Heavy help Doktor."

"I – ah – zhank you, _kamerad_," replied the Medic, feeling somewhat foolish. He took the bag back with a mixture of gratitude and relief.

"Come along now, Doktor," laughed the Heavy. "Is time to get on bus! Do not miss, for it is long walk to base!" He strode toward the train station once more, with a new vigor in his step. Medic followed. Whatever the future held, it was likely going to involve his large new friend. Not exactly what he'd been expecting, but it could have been worse.

And the new lab. He was almost certain there'd be one. State of the art, too… If there wasn't, there was going to be one very cranky German with a very large Russian bargaining tool. Medic chuckled to himself. Things were looking up after all.


	3. Chapter 3: A Tale of Two Mercenaries

**Author's note: **Wow - 9 reviews and over a thousand hits in less than a month! This little exercise to keep my creative writing skills in shape has really taken off. So as thanks, here is an extra-long chapter 3. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a big fan of "decompressed" storytelling a la "Breaking Bad" and Coen Brothers films, which is why I haven't got to the "humor and adventure" part of the tale yet. All in good time.

* * *

><p>Sniper's day, however, had started off bad and only got worse.<p>

What had started it all? He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, gritting his teeth together in a desperate attempt to ignore the deafening snores coming from the man passed out next to him. Patience was a necessity in his profession, but he was running very low on it at the moment.

The servo! That might be it. If he'd filled up on petrol at the previous – "gas station," they called them here - and not driven on in the hopes of finding a cheaper one, just like his skinflint dad, even though he made several million dollars a year –

Nah. It was that phone call home he'd made when he stopped, and he knew it, too. And then he wouldn't have picked up the hitchhiker, and it would have been apples all the way… His mind drifted back to only a few hours before…

* * *

><p>The traffic whizzed by at a brisk pace outside the station. Sniper hadn't expected there to be this much traffic out in the middle of seemingly nowhere. Apparently the Badlands Canyons were something of a popular tourist destination.<p>

Still, that meant plenty of places to stock up on supplies, even if it meant dealing with wacky Americans. Loud, fat, pasty, and with those cheesy grins perpetually plastered across their faces. "Hey, bud," they'd say as he paid for his petrol, some jerky, and the occasional bottle of water or tinned fruit. "Yew frum Awe-straylia or somethin'?"

And then they'd laugh at his accent.

Bloody wankas.

But he never lost his temper or made a single snide remark. Professionals have standards, and besides, he'd heard that the only thing Americans loved more than food was their guns. No sense taking unnecessary risks.

Now he stood, with great trepidation, staring at a shonky excuse for a pay phone. One phone call. What was one phone call to a man such as he?

Everything, when it involved parents. He'd much rather face down a charging Cape buffalo or an enraged saltwater crocodile than his father.

But he had to try. His mum would worry if he didn't call, she wrote so in her letters. And surely one day they'd understand. If he could just make them see…

The dryness in Sniper's mouth had nothing to do with the heat. He stared into the black holes of the receiver. They seemed to gape like bottomless pits.

He swallowed hard. Picked up the handset, fed the machine with quarters, and dialed.

There was a long silence as he was connected to the other side of the world.

"Mundy residence."

"Hey, Dad."

No response. He heard Mum in the background: "Who is it, luv? It's awfully late…"

"Lawrence." A response to her, not to him. She gave a small cry of surprise.

"Just uh… callin' to let you know how I was, uh, doin', and catch up on, er, news from the ranch and all that." He forced a laugh.

"Really," said his father. "Funny how that works, isn't it? Thought you'd give us a call in the middle of the bleedin' night, after a nice long day of murderin' people? Just to check on things? After we haven't heard from you in over two damn months?"

Sniper's heart sank, and he cursed himself. How could he have forgotten about the time difference?

"Dad, I didn't mean to-"

"Oh really, Lawrence. Really. Well I guess it was just you bein' your usual, thoughtless self."

"Dear," said Mum in the background, "dear, let me speak to him…"

"Not 'till I'm done with him first! He's still got no sense, no respect! I guess when you're a crazed gunman, you don't have any rules! Just do whatever you damn well please!"

This wasn't going well at all.

"I'm not a crazed gunman, Dad, I'm an assassin!" protested Sniper.

"What's the diff'rence?"

"Well the diff'rence bein' one's a job and the other's mental sickness!"

"Oh, that's even better! You don't murder people because you hate them, you murder them because someone's givin' you money! Well all right then! Apples all the way!"

"Dad-"

"Let me tell you a touchin' story, boy," said his father, voice choked with anger. "Today your mum and I go into town, and everyone's talkin' about their kids. This one owns his automobile dealership. That one's a vet. Most of 'em are married. Some of 'em even have lads of their own. Pictures in their wallies, the lot. And then they ask me: 'Hey, Mundy, how's that boy of yours doin'? Haven't seen him around lately!' And what am I supposed to say to that?"

"Well, tell them I'm a successful professional in the security business!"

"So I'll just tell them my son's a professional murderer, then! And a full grown bloke, no mates, no kids, no sheilas, nothin'! That'll be a real laugh! My son, the sicko! A real credit to the family name!"

Mum burst into tears. "Please, George, please – just let me speak to him," he could hear her sobbing. His throat tightened.

"Dad. Dad. Put Mum on the phone," he said, exasperated. He leaned against the telephone pole for support.

"You _shamed_ us, boy. You pissed your bed, and now you have to lie in it. And if you think for even one moment that you can come slinkin' back here-"

"Dad!" Sniper pleaded. "I didn't call to come home! I didn't want to start a row like you always do! I just want to talk to Mum!"

"If you can't take the bloody heat, get off the damn barbie! We raised you better than this, Lawrence! And you thank us by breakin' your mother's heart. That's gratitude for ya!"

"You wanted this!" said Sniper, and he could keep the bitterness out of his voice no longer. "Always tellin' me I had to be tougher, to stand up, to be rugged, a dinkum Aussie bloke! And now here I am Dad! Just what you asked for-"

"I wanted you to be a man, not bloody Saxton Hale-"

"-and I make over 10 times a sawbones' pay-"

"-it's blood money, every penny of it-"

"-never had time for me, always 'too busy'-"

"-always drinkin' with the flies, no mates, no woman, like some bloody poofta-"

"Crikey, Dad!" Sniper almost shouted. "You've flipped your lid! I get it! But give me a fair go! I'm still your son!"

"You're wrong about that, _mate_," said his father, and Sniper's blood froze in his veins. "_I have no son anymore_."

_Click._

The silence was deafening.

Sniper's mouth hung open in shock. He dropped the receiver and it swung, listlessly, back and forth on the cord, as he continued to stare at nothing.

Slowly, he sat down, slumped forward, and placed his head in his hands; exhaled in measured breaths. Don't tear up, don't tear up, don't tear up-

"Oy, laddie! Are ye finished wi' that 'ere thing?"

Sniper stiffened. He wasn't particularly sociable in the best of moods, and now was definitely not the time. He hunched his shoulders, hoping the voice would go away.

Instead, it came closer. "Aye, lad, whot jus' happened to ye? Yer wearin' a face longer'n' a sheep at shearin' time!"

"None ya business," mumbled Sniper. "Clear off."

"Ah would, mate, but yer 'twixt me an' the phone! Cannae no help ye? Tain't in a Scotsman's way tae leave a man twistin' in the wind, stranger or no."

"I said, clear off. S'nothin' you can do about anyway."

"Och, ah beg tae differ, laddie! Ah couldnae help but overhear yer conversation. Troubles wi' yer kin ain't nothin' tae smile at. Ye seem like a right cheerful sort most times, but no one can blame even a braw laddie like yerself fer gettin' upset wi' that."

"Hmmph."

"C'mon now, buck up, laddie. Ah'll show ye how it's done. I was just aboot t'call me own mum – a right powderkeg if there ever was one. Ye'll see yer not the only one. The trick's to laugh at them – they still think of ye as a wee one, not a man." A brown hand extended itself to Sniper. He stared at it, then grasped it firmly with his own.

He was pulled back up, and found himself face to face with one of the most peculiar individuals he had ever seen. While he had been expecting a Scotsman, he hadn't expected him to be – well – _black_. And not one with roguish good looks, and an eyepatch. All he needed was a wooden leg and a hook, and he could have been a pirate captain.

The Scotsman noticed his stare, and chuckled. "Aye, laddie, look all ye want, it's free. Ye ever think yer an oddball, come back and spend some time wi' me." He laughed. "Name's Tavish DeGroot, professional Demoman."

"Lawrence Mundy. Professional assassin," replied the Sniper, shaking the proffered palm.

"Pleased tae meet ya," said the Demoman. "Now, let's see if ah can't put a grin back on yer face. Ye wouldnae happen to have a few more quarters, now, would ye?"

The Sniper wordlessly handed him a roll of quarters, and waited.

The Scotsman fed the machine, dialed, turned to face the Australian with an expectant grin, and winked.

"Hello?" came an elderly voice from the handset.

"Hi there, Mum," said the Demoman, cheerfully.

"TAVISH DEGROOT!" screeched the voice. "YE WICKED RASCAL, BREAKIN' YER POOR OLD MOTHER'S HEART!"

"Ah'm doin' fine, mum, and yerself?"

"PRANCIN' ABOOT IN FOREIGN LANDS, LAZIN' AROUND, AND WITHOUT A THOUGHT OF A WEE OLD LADY, FRETTIN' HERSELF INTO AN EARLY GRAVE WI' WORRY-"

"Ye don't have tae shout, Mum," replied Tavish happily. "Ah can hear ye jus' fine as if ye t'were standin' next tae me, ye don't have tae yell as though ye we wailin' at me from Scotland."

"WHAT?"

"Put yer hearin' aid in, Mum!"

"SPEAK UP, YE MUMBLIN' DEVIL!"

"AH SAID, PUT YER HEARIN' AID IN!" yelled the Scot.

"I cannae hear a word the boy's sayin'! HOLD ON, TAVISH, AH'M PUTTIN' MAH HEARIN' AID IN!"

Sniper chuckled. The Demoman smiled and nodded knowingly.

"There, that's better. Now, boy, what's the meanin' o' this? Ye haven't called me since last week! A poor blind old lady, wi' nought tae do but feed the pigeons, an' blow them up on occasion?"

"Ah called ye day before last, Mum. And ah told ye that ah couldnae call ye yesterday, cause ah'd be on the road tae mah new job," the Scotsman chided, gently.

"Ach, dinnae speak tae me of jobs, ye wicked soul! Yer father would be spinnin' in his grave at yer idleness-" - the Demoman pantomimed his mother, mouthing the words - "-all eighteen pieces of him we could find, bless him!"

Sniper chortled. He was already beginning to forget about his horrible conversation.

"Why, he'd march fifty mile in the rain, jus' tae blow up the Queen of England fer a nickel! Holdin' thirty jobs, and ye've never held more than seven a' once!"

Sniper made a valiant effort to keep himself from bursting into laughter.

"Ach, come off it now, Mum," laughed the Demoman. "The number gets bigger every time ye say it. And I'm makin' more money wi' this one job than Da' ever did wi' all of his."

"Why I never!" exclaimed Mrs. DeGroot indignantly. "Talkin' back t' yer dear auld mother! If ye were here I'd give ye such an arse-beatin' ye couldnae sit doon fer a week!"

Tavish's caricatured expression of mock fear was the final straw. Sniper lost it completely, and laughed until his sides ached.

* * *

><p>"Weel now," said the Demoman, as he hung up the phone, "that was a right proper conversation, eh?"<p>

"A bloody corker, it was," smiled Sniper. He gave a sidelong glance at the sun, which was by now starting to make its descent toward the horizon. "Think I'll have to be on my way now, mate. Gonna have to go flat out like a lizard drinkin' if I'm to make it by sundown."

"Ah don't suppose ye'd have room fer one more, eh?" asked the Demoman hopefully. "Me car's been smashed to bits, and ah could use a hand gettin' to Teufort."

"'Ow do you know I'm goin' there?" asked the Sniper, curiously.

"A Demoman's intuition," retorted the Scot, "and also ye've still got R.E.D's envelope pokin' out yer vest pocket."

"Good on ya, mate!" exclaimed the Australian with surprise. "Eye like a ruddy hawk, you have. Pop in the back of the van and find the bloody map, and we'll be aces."

The Demoman needed no second bidding, and hopped in Sniper's makeshift home. "Ah don't suppose ye'd have anythin' tae sip on, no?" came his voice from inside. "Me mouth's as dry as a pinecone, so 'tis!"

"Take a gander back in there, mate," offered Sniper. "Should be a few drinks back there. Water, maybe a bit of fruit." He climbed into the driver's seat.

The clanks and rustles ensuing from the back of the van made it sound as though the Scotsman was ransacking the place. "Oy, laddie, ah think yer house could use a bit o' cleanin'! Ah cannae find a bloody thing – ah, got it."

The back door slammed shut, and Tavish reappeared with a bottle of water, the map, and, Sniper, noted, two six-packs of Foster's finest. "Ah found it!' he proclaimed. "In a wee little fridge, all by its lonesome." He cracked open the bottle of water, and drained it in a single gulp. "Aye, that's the stuff!"

"Thirsty, are ya?" chuckled Sniper. He started the engine, and pulled back onto the highway.

"Ye might say that," replied the Demoman, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "How aboot switchin' tae somethin' a wee bit stronger, eh?" He eyed the beer eagerly.

"Nah, mate, s'right," replied the Aussie. "Too early t' start drinkin'. Need to keep eyes on for the road."

The van picked up speed slowly, and Sniper relaxed, enjoying the cool breeze from his open window and the sterile beauty of the desert. Times like these were the best: when he could forget about his worries, and simply live in the moment.

Tavish had no such appreciation for the sound of silence or scenic vistas. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and bit his nails apprehensively. "C'mon mate, cannae no have one? Ah'm not drivin'."

"A bloke can't get those over here, mate. Dinkum lager, that is. Everything here's just Clayton's. I'm savin' 'em for a special occasion."

If Sniper had been watching the Demoman's hands instead of the roadway, he would have noticed them shaking uncontrollably. "Aye, laddie, but meetin' a bonny new friend an' fellow tradesman's worth celebratin', no?"

"Okay mate, but just wait 'till the next stop."

"NO!" bellowed the Demoman angrily, making Sniper jump in his seat. "Ah mean – ah, sorry, lad – but ah've heard so much aboot the drink, the fine taste, the time-honored tradition – ah thought ye'd want tae share a bit o' yer heritage wi' me," he coaxed. "Ye know ah'd do the same for ye – an' twould be a right shame to let it get warm again…"

"Alright, mate, fine! You win!" laughed Sniper good-naturedly. "Have a coldie. But if we get in a bingle, let me do the talkin'."

"Aye, that's the spirit!" cheered the Demoman. "Ah knew ye were a good lad!" He popped open a bottle and took a hearty swig. "Cheers, mate!"

* * *

><p>12 beers later, Sniper was seriously regretting ever having brought the drinks with him in the first place.<p>

At first, the conversation had been quite pleasant. The two had talked and reminisced about old adventures they'd had, each trying to top the other, and discussing the ups and downs of the mercenary lifestyle. Sniper had allowed the Demoman to have another beer, and another, and at first, the alcohol had only made him even more exuberant and witty. He began to monopolize the conversation, which was fine with Sniper, as he was really a better listener anyway.

But what had begun as side-splitting tales of carousing, skirt-chasing, and "scrapping," as the Demoman called it, started becoming increasingly violent and gory tales of beatings and assassinations. As the bottles started to pile up, Sniper started getting a little put off.

"That's all fine and good, mate, but don't you think it's a bit excessive, eh? A nice, clean shot to the noggin is just as effective, and doesn't require nearly the same amount of risk or preparation as attachin' remote detonators to every structural support in the bloody building! No civvies injured, no property damage-"

"Aye, but that's the whole point, laddie! It wouldnae be half as excitin'! Tae see the looks on their faces, when they realized 'twere sittin' on the bloody bomb, the whole time! Wi' ye, they don't even know they're dead."

"But that's the whole point, Tavish! It's efficient. Professional. Polite, even. It says: "Sorry, lad. Nothin' personal, just business."

"Whot?" slurred the Demoman, incredulously. "Ye mean tae tell me ye don't have the slightest bit o' feelin' in ye when ye shoot 'em?"

"Feelings!" said Sniper, with contempt. "You know who has feelings? Blokes what bludgeon their wives to death with a golf trophy. Professionals have standards. Be polite. Be efficient. Have a plan to kill everyone you meet."

"Ach," said the Demoman, with a nasty grin. "You're afraid tae get yer wee pretty hands dirty, are ye? Ah must be scarin' ye wi' me tales of face-tae-face _man fightin_!"

"Oi, piss off!" exclaimed the Australian, indignantly. "I've cut a few blokes open with a kukri in my day! This is how you rough types get in all those fights – goin' round insultin' blokes, an' expectin' em to lie down with it!"

During this heated exchange, a military-style jeep had been rapidly gaining on the slower camper van. Two police cars were following it in hot pursuit, lights ablaze and sirens wailing. The jeep had seen better days – one of the tires had blown out completely, the body and windshield were riddled with bullet holes, and there were splashes of what might have been dried blood across the front. The driver, a brutish-looking man wearing a ragged trenchcoat and a comically oversized helmet, cackled maniacally to himself as he drew level with the camper van. The Demoman saw his approach in the side view mirrored, and laughed evilly.

"Nae, lad," he said to Sniper. "_This_ is how ye start a fight."

Without warning, DeGroot grabbed the steering wheel and turned it hard. The van suddenly swerved to the side, bashing the jeep viciously and causing the driver to lose control of his vehicle.

"MAGGOTS!" screamed the man in the oversized helmet, and shook his fist with rage as his jeep careened off the highway and plowed through a patch of cacti. One of the policemen gave Sniper a "thumbs-up" gesture before his squad car followed the jeep off the road.

"Aye, that'll teach 'im!" crowed the Demoman. He leaned out the driver's side window, blocking Sniper's view. "Come wide at us again, lad, and I'll give ye a real beatin'!"

"Oi, mate! You're blockin' me view! Gerroff!" barked Sniper. He shoved the Scotsman back into his seat.

"Ach, dinnae be such a dandy, now!" growled Tavish. "There's naught a whit of fun in ye!" He finished his bottle and chucked it out the window.

Sniper was relieved to see that it was the last. "Alright, mate. What say we just drive for a bit in silence, eh? Take a nap, maybe. It's gonna be a while 'fore we get there."

DeGroot cackled nastily, and Sniper saw, to his horror, that he was holding the jar of grain alcohol Sniper used to sterilize wounds and clean his glasses. "Aye, good thing ah brought this wi' me then!"

"Now just a tic! You're in the bag already, and that's not for drinkin'! Medicinal purposes only!"

"But ah'm self-medicatin', now, aren't I?" snarled the Scot, combatively. "Ah've got tae keep meself in good health naow, an' bugger the blockhead who says otherwise!" He took a large gulp. "Jus' try and stop me, ye bastard, an' ah'll choke ye with yer own hat, ye scrawny excuse fer a man!"

"Cripes, ease up!" exclaimed Sniper angrily. "Don't threaten the bloke what's drivin' the bloody vehicle you're sittin' in, you bludger!"

"You so much as look at me crosswise, an' ah'll give ye a Glasgow smile wi' a piece of me jar!" His eye glittered with malice as he took another swig. "An' they'll find ye all dead on the side of the road, wi' cats lickin' at ye!"

The Australian instinctively reached for his kukri, before remembering that he had stashed it in the back of the camper van. Bollocks. His rifle was mounted on the wall behind him, but there was no way he'd be able to get it down and aimed in time while driving… He watched as the Scot raised his glass once again. "Bloody 'ell, mate, you're gonna kill yourself with that stuff!"

Then, the unexpected happened. DeGroot froze, and his expression changed from bloodlust to despair in less than a second. "Ah wish ah could, mate," he intoned dully. "Ah wish ah could."

His lip began to quiver uncontrollably, and Sniper realized what was about to happen just a moment too late. "Eh, hold off, Tavish, I didn't mean-"

"AH'M A ONE-EYED BLOODY MONSTER!" bawled the Demoman, tears pouring from his single eye. "Ah don't deserve a single thing ah'm given!" He smashed the jar against the dashboard, and moonshine splashed all over the interior of the van. "Ah oughtae jus' blow meself up, an-, an-, an-, then everyone'd be much happier!" He sobbed brokenly, his words becoming unintelligible through gasps for air. Tears and mucus trickled freely down his face.

Sniper stared, aghast. He had survived some of the most inhospitable environments known to man, stared death in the face on a daily basis, and squeezed his way out of more tight scrapes than he cared to mention, but nothing had ever prepared him to deal with a manic-depressive, alcoholic, black Scottish Cyclops. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out.

"FERGIE!" gasped Tavish DeGroot, and his whole body shook with anguish. "Fergie, mate, ah'm sorry… ah'm so, so sorry… I dinnae mean tae hurt ye… never meant tae hurt any of ye… oh God, Fergie, please, dinnae look at me…" He moaned with misery, and covered his face with his hands, still crying.

Sixty seconds later, he had fallen asleep, and his deafening snores would have rattled the windows, had not Sniper already lowered them to get some air.

Now half an hour had passed by, and here he was.

* * *

><p>Sniper's reverie was rudely interrupted by a large belch. The Demoman had woken up again. What new tricks would the bloody wanka try this time? Set himself on fire? Ralph all over the seats?<p>

He felt a sudden surge of anger. He hadn't asked for this. He'd shown kindness, and this was how he was rewarded? He thought of another lesson he'd learned while in the bush: "_You don't have to rely on other people if you never miss._" Well, that settled it then. First chance he got, out the door the bastard went.

"Ach… so bright an' noisy… ah need yer shades, mate, for just a wee moment…" and a brown hand reached out to pull Sniper's aviators from his face. He slapped the hand away, and glared at the Demoman without responding.

The Scotsman slumped back into his seat, singing tunelessly. "Have ye… ever… seen a laddie, a laddie, a… laddie, have ye ever seen a laddie run… this way an' that…"

"Run this way, an' that way, an' this way, an' that way…"

Sniper gritted his teeth, and imagined the steering wheel was the Scot's neck.

"An'… this way… an' that… way… stout shako… fer two refined…"

The Demoman stopped, and stared blearily at some unknown foe in the distance. "Ah'll take both of ye on, ye… arrogant… heathens…" He made a move as though to punch someone, and hiccupped morosely. "You an' me, mate – problems both, bloody killers, tryin' to please them what cain't ever be satisfied…"

Frustration steadily building, Sniper continued to ignore him.

The Demoman hiccupped again. "Just alike, we are… a sorry bunch a' loosahs," he said morosely. "Ah'm not a bloody bum-tickler… ye know that… but ah've got t' tell ye…"

He lurched uncomfortably close to Sniper, and put his mouth to Sniper's ear. The Aussie recoiled at the sensation of hot alcoholic breath, and pushed the Scot away roughly.

"Ah love ye man… if ah wasn't half the man ah was, ah'd kiss ye."

Something in Sniper snapped.

Without a moment's hesitation, he slammed on the brakes as hard as he possibly could. The tires squealed horribly.

"AAH! Whot th' fu-" Demoman screamed, right before his head connected with a resounding THWACK against the glove compartment. It popped open, showering him with old candy bar wrappers and outdated maps as he crumpled in his seat.

"Oooh, that smarts…" he moaned, dazed.

Sniper unbuckled himself, hopped out of the van, and ran around to the other side, yanking the door open. The Demoman spilled out onto the roadway like a sack of potatoes. "Ah feel like ever'y bone in me body's broke…"

"Get out!" snarled Sniper, grabbing his legs and dragging him off to the side of the road. "Get out, you pickle-headed drongo!"

"Aye…Whot? Errgh…" groaned the cyclops, his single eye unfocused. "Ehh, ah'll have anotha' round… gi' me tha bottle-"

"Pig-head wanka!" spat Sniper, his face crimson with fury. "You said you were a professional! Lyin' drunk!"

"Ach!' cried the Scotsman, feeling his forehead gingerly. "Ah'm bleedin'!" He struggled to sit up, but Sniper shoved him back down again viciously.

"Ye terrible crool beanpole of a man! Whot in th' name of me mother Tilly did ah ever do t'ye?" Bewildered, he stared at his own reflection in his assailant's aviators.

"THINK ABOUT IT, YOU BLOODY BOGAN!" roared Sniper. "Professionals have STANDARDS! Oi'm NOTHIN' like you!"

"If'n you think 'at you're better'n me, you gotta another think…shoulda… finadda…ugggh…" slurred the Demoman, finally yielding to the combined effects of alcohol and a concussion, and passing out.

"Enjoy walkin' home, wanka!" snapped Sniper, and turned back to the van.

He gave the front tire a savage kick, the anger suddenly draining from him as he realized what he'd done.

He'd lost his temper, to put it mildly.

"_I'll tell ya who has feelings! Blokes what bludgeon their wives to death with a golf trophy."_

"_I'm not a crazed gunman, dad, I'm an assassin! Well the diff'rence bein' one is a job and the other's mental sickness!"_

So much for being polite, he thought to himself, as he clambered back into the driver's seat. The air still reeked faintly of booze, and he gave a guilty glance in the side view mirror at the Demoman's unconscious form.

It had to be done, though. The man had far exceeded the patience of a saint, violated all sorts of personal boundaries – and brought the worst qualities out in anyone, even a professional like himself. No man who worked with explosives while off his face could possibly be anything like him. Yes. He had done the professional thing. A little overzealously, perhaps, but the point had been made.

He sighed to himself. If he ever needed a pick-me-up, this was the time. He fumbled under his seat, found a half-empty packet of durries and a Zippo, and lit up.

His father had always smoked a pipe, but only on occasion, and the smell of tobacco smoke reminded him of happier times.

But his own pipe was packed away in his luggage, so this would have to do. He knew it wasn't good for him, knew how it broadcast a scent far and wide to any animals or other prey he might be tracking, but it was the only thing that could get him out of a funk and ease his mind better than beer. It was a special situation, and desperate times called for desperate measures. Besides, he only ever had one at a time.

Finishing his cigarette, he stubbed it out on his boot heel and flicked it out the window. Yet another thing he shouldn't do. But now he felt somewhat better, and that was what mattered – here and now. He smiled ruefully, and started the van's engine again.

If he had happened to check his mirrors again, he would have noticed the Demoman had mysteriously disappeared from view. But the great tracker of men and beasts alike was preoccupied as he shifted the van into gear, checked his map, and pulled back onto the road.

The sun was finally beginning to sink into the horizon, and Sniper could already feel the temperature starting to drop. Soon the day's heat would dissipate into space, to be replaced with the chill of the desert night. It didn't bother Sniper – years of living in the Outback had seen to that – but it did make him wonder how the Demoman was going to cope. The desert was harsh enough on a man without him being drunk, injured, and lost to boot.

"Oh, what's that, now?" he thought aloud to himself. "Feelin' sympathy, are we? Keep it up and we'll see how long you last, Lawrence. You'll end up like Mum, blubberin' whenever someone snuffs it on the telly. Pull yourself together! That bloke would have sold his own soul for a drop of booze!"

"He's nothing like me. Professionals have standards," he repeated to himself. Yeah, that seemed about right. "Professionals have standards."

Still, he thought to himself, he was curious as to what would become of his former passenger. Purely for intellectual reasons, of course. What would a man in his situation do? Wait for help? Try to follow the road to another town? Freeze?

"Take m'ye revenge, that's what ah'm goin' tae do!' growled Demoman to himself, as he clung to the roof of the camper van. "Oh, they're goin' tae bury what's left of ye in a soup can, when ah'm done wi' ye, boyo!" His white teeth gleamed in a feral grin. "You're goin' tae regret th' day ye crossed Tavish DeGroot!"

The vehicle sped onward towards the dying light, as the stars came out, one by one.


	4. Chapter 4: Apres Scout, Le Deluge

**Author's note: **It all starts coming together. Or does it? This chapter was a little rushed. Leave a review if you can - it helps me know what to focus on to make the story even better.

* * *

><p>Once Scout and his mother had finished moving his worldly possessions into the complex (which didn't take long, given their financial state of affairs,) Dell Conagher reappeared and informed them that he had fixed their car.<p>

Skeptical of his claim, they all headed outside to view his handiwork. To the Yankee family's amazement, not only was the car fully repaired, it looked better than ever. The Engineer began to babble happily about some reconstructive technique he called "percussive maintenance," which to Scout sounded an awful lot like banging on something with a wrench in order to fix it.

Mama Scout gave her son a hug and a kiss, promising to return the beginning of next week. "I'd stay with ya all day, sweetie, but I wouldn't want ta embarrass ya in front of ya new coworkers! But I did leave a little surprise for ya in ya knapsack."

Scout watched his mother go, and gave her a happy little wave as she drove away. "Bye Ma!"

But as soon as she was out of sight, his demeanor changed completely. "YES!" Scout shouted, punching the air. "Haha! I'm free! Wooo!" He ran around in circles a few times, then leapt in the air as high as he could. "No more rules! No more rules! No more-"

He stopped abruptly, realizing the Engineer had been watching him the whole time. The Texan's expression was unreadable.

"Aw, jeez," groaned Scout. "I'm still stuck here with you. Dontcha have toilets ta fix or somethin'?"

The Engineer took a measured gulp of his beer, and continued to stare at Scout.

Something told Scout that he was being judged. This irritated Scout. Who the hell did this guy think he was, anyway?

"Hey, pally, you gonna share that booze or what? Standin' around like a dope all day?"

"Well, son, I reckon we've got some time to kill," said the Engineer, after a moment's pause. "Most of my gear's still in transit – maybe we oughta get to know each other a little bit better."

"When's dinner?" asked Scout, ignoring the transparent attempt at conversation. "I'm frikkin' starving."

"Didn't you get your orientation papers when you signed the contract? It's all laid out in there clear as day."

"Hell no! Reading's for wimps, and old farts like you. I ain't got time for dat shit."

"Watch your mouth, boy," said the Engineer, his eyes narrowed. "If I was your daddy, I'd beat you with a switch and wash your mouth with lye soap for sayin' that."

"Well, ya ain't my Dad, so quit actin' like it," replied Scout, rudely. "I aintcha son, I aintcha friend, an' you can't tell me what ta do cus' you ain't Ma."

"Don't be an ignorant cuss, boy," said the Texan, patiently. "Does your momma even know why you're really out here?"

"Yeah," said Scout. This was a brazen lie, but Pops didn't need to know that.

"You seem a mite young for this kind of job, anyway. Why'd they pick you? Don't seem to me like you'd have a whole lotta work experience."

"Hey man, my friggin' life is my work experience! Do you have any idea? Any idea who I am?" The Scout gestured wildly.

"Nope."

"Lemme put it this way: Grass grows, birds fly, the sun shines, and brother, I hurt people."

"Really."

"I'm like a force a' nature."

"You don't say."

"If you was from, where I was from, you'd be fuckin' dead!" finished the Scout triumphantly. He mugged as though waiting for applause.

The Engineer stared, unimpressed. "Sounds like you're all hat and no cattle, son. How 'bout you give me some facts instead of a whole mess o' nothin'?"

Scout paused for a moment. It had sounded a lot better rehearsed inside his head.

"I'm fast. Like, really friggin' fast. Speedin' bullet? I'm faster. Ya can't touch me." He strutted in front of the Engineer with a confident swagger.

"Plus, I'm like, freakin' ripped. I eat punks for breakfast, pally. Don't mess with me." The Scout struck a pose and flexed his muscles. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he had none to speak of.

"Bet you ain't faster than my contraptions, though," said the Engineer flatly, more to himself than Scout. He took another sip of his beer.

"The hell you talkin' about, hardhat? You got some kinda robot that runs faster 'n me?"

"You ever kill a man before, Scout?" asked the Engineer abruptly.

"What?" said Scout, caught off-guard.

"You heard me."

"Hey, I beat dudes down on a daily basis! Bat, brick, ball – doesn't matta. They-"

"I asked you if you've killed a man. Not beat him up with all your buddies eggin' you on." The Engineer gave Scout a hard stare.

"But I – what the- I mean-"

The Engineer shook his head, and sighed. "Don't talk the talk if you haven't walked the walk, boy. You end up lookin' like a damn fool." He set the bottle down on the ground and folded his arms across his chest. "Where I come from, a fella gets judged not only by his words, but by his deeds, and the quality of his character. And right now, you're failin' on all three counts with me."

"Now I've tried my darndest to be patient with you, but that's mighty difficult with all the disrespect you've been givin' me. Think you better get along before I lose my temper, an' then come back and try talkin' to me again after a little while."

"Cram it, you stupid old hick! Whaddya think you are, Andy Griffith or somebody?"

"I have 12 Ph. D.'s in hard science, city boy," retorted the Engineer. "And you're one to talk about bein' ignorant. I feel sorry for your momma, havin' to put up with your smart mouth all her life." His voice was still calm, but there was a touch of steel to it.

"Don't you get Ma involved in this, gramps!"

"Quit mouthin' off to me, boy!"

"Gentlemen," said a voice from the doorway, "when you are finished with your petty contest of masculinity, perhaps you would care to assist _moi _with gaining entrance to the kitchen. While I find it amusing to watch you bicker, I do not wish to go hungry because of it."

Both Americans gasped in shock, and spun around to face the speaker, startled. How had he managed to open the door and sneak up behind them?

"Allow me to introduce myself," said the man. "I am ze Spy."

* * *

><p>A minute later, Scout and Engineer found themselves following the Frenchman who called himself the "Spy" down a long and featureless corridor. Both were full of questions regarding the newcomer: Who was he? Why did he wear a balaclava with an expensive suit? How had he snuck up on them? But curiosity to see their living arrangements won out over their suspicions, particularly as there was nothing better to do, and the Spy was very evasive with answers.<p>

"Did I not just tell you?" he had replied, with amusement. "I am ze Spy. Now let us move!"

And he refused to say another word, until they arrived at a plain wooden door, held in place by no more than a deadbolt lock.

"Obviously, I could have gained entrance to ze facility quite easily," smirked the Spy, "but ze lock eez jammed. One of you seems familiar with tools, ze other, I am certain, has experience with breaking locks as well." The insult went completely over Scout's head, but the Spy did not seem to care.

Engineer smiled as he examined the door. "Heck, they weren't even tryin' when they built this one." He produced a screwdriver-like implement from his overalls and proceeded to dismantle and remove the deadbolt. The door clicked open.

"Excellent," said the Spy, as he slipped, cat-like, into the room. Engineer and Scout followed.

The hallway opened up into a room that seemed to be a combination kitchen, eating area, and rec room. The walls were bare, save for a few cracks in the white plaster, and the linoleum floor was a dirty off-white reminiscent of spoiled milk. A long table occupied the center of the room, with some cheap metal folding chairs scattered about.

At the far end of the room was a small makeshift kitchen, with a gas range and oven, a refrigerator, and strangely enough, a walk-in pantry and what looked like a walk-in freezer. Closer to the group was a sagging red couch and some moth-eaten armchairs, arranged around a black-and-white television set. Fluorescent bulbs cast a harsh light over the scenery.

"Sweet!" exclaimed Scout with joy. "This place is bigger than my entire friggin' house!"

Engineer looked around, a little disconcerted. "Needs a woman's touch, or somethin' to make it a little more attractive. I wasn't expectin' much, but this don't really match the pay grade…"

"Eet is a dump," said the Spy, his voice tinged with contempt. "I was promised superior accommodations, not this pig sty fit for only the most common _bourgeoisie_. I shudder to think of what my room must be like…"

"Aw hell, it ain't that bad, pardner," chuckled the Texan. "A nice checkered tablecloth, some wildflowers in a vase, and good ol'-fashioned home cookin' 'll cheer any place right up-"

"Oh please," groaned the Spy. "Perhaps it is satisfactory for you, _laborer_, but I have taste in other places besides my mouth. Next you will tell me that you drink red wine with fish, and tie the tablecloth around your neck to serve as a napkin." He rolled his eyes. "_Americans._"

Scout frowned. "What's wrong with dat? Saves money on napkins…"

The Frenchman threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "But of course! Subtlety is wasted on you all!" He opened the fridge and examined the contents. "At least there is no shortage of ingredients in the larder – I do believe I see some pate in there…"

"Forget your frog food, I wanna snack!" exclaimed the Scout, shoving Spy aside. He grabbed two apples and darted off, leaving the Spy and the Engineer alone together.

An awkward silence followed.

"You got any idea why everything around here's locked?" asked the Engineer, uncomfortable in the Spy's presence.

"Eez it not obvious? There are things here we are not supposed to see – at least not yet. Do you honestly think 'zat an organization such as our employer, with such power and finances, would build such a place only to house its employees? I think not. There is more than meets the eye to a place such as this." The Spy produced a cigarette case, lit a cigarette, and gave the Engineer such a condescending look that the mild-mannered Texan felt a sudden urge to punch him in his fancy face.

"Hey, now," he said defensively. "I don't get paid to ask questions, just to do my job. What an employer does with my inventions ain't no concern of mine."

"And don't smoke inside, it smells somethin' terrible," he added, as an afterthought.

"And 'zat eez why you are an amateur and a fool," replied the Spy, taking an insouciant puff of his cigarette. "You are not truly an assassin, you tell yourself, because you prefer delegating ze responsibility to your machines and your employer. You lack ze courage and ze skill to fight without your technology as a crutch."

"What!" exclaimed the Engineer, forgetting, in his outrage, that the Spy should know nothing about him at this point. "You got a lotta nerve, comin' 'round here with your hoity-toity ways and puttin' down everyone. I'm a reasonable man, but don't test my mettle. Maybe they do things different in your country, but ain't nobody here gonna talk like that without askin' for trouble."

The Spy appeared to consider this for a moment, and then blew a cloud of smoke in the Engineer's face. He coughed, but did not back down.

"You're a loooong way from France, boy. Best remember that," he said, ominously.

The Spy, instead of being intimidated, smiled.

"Oh, you Americans. So quick to anger. _Tres amusant!_ What is work without a little banter between friends!" He gave Engineer a quick little pat on the back, and then walked briskly out of the room.

Engineer sighed. He was already feeling like he wanted to go home. Maybe the other team members would be a bit more – _normal_. He reached into his pocket for his wallet, to view the photo of the family he'd left behind, and his hand closed on nothingness.

It took him about 10 seconds to realize what had happened.

"SPAH'S STEALIN' MAH WALLET!"

An unmistakable obnoxious, braying laugh echoed throughout the base. Crimson-faced, Engineer raced down the hallway as fast as he could. His wallet lay at the end of the hallway, but the Spy was nowhere to be found.

"Git back here an' fight like a man, you coward!" yelled Engineer, lamely.

"Who dares call me coward?" rumbled an angry voice behind him.

The Texan shouted with surprise, and whirled around to face the largest man he'd ever seen in his life.

"Lovin' mother of sweet potato pie, mister," gasped the Engineer, clutching his chest, "near gave me a heart attack there."

Heavy narrowed his eyes. "Did teeny baby man call Heavy coward?" He pointed an accusatory sausage-like finger at Engineer.

"No, friend, 'course not," stammered the Engineer, awed by the man looming over him.

"Herr Heavy!" came an insistent voice from behind the giant. "Herr Heavy, vat are you doing? Ve haff much to unload, und I still haff not found my things! Assistance, _bitte_!"

"Look," said the Russian, proudly, and Engineer found himself hoisted into the air by his overalls and presented to a tall, middle-aged German. "I have found baby man."

"Howdy," said Engineer weakly, and waved.

Medic rolled his eyes. "Fascinating," he said. "Now put him down und make yourself useful. Unless you are too tired after ze trip-"

"Never! Leetle boxes are no match for Heavy," grinned the Russian. He dropped the Engineer and squeezed past him (an impressive feat, given he was nearly as wide as the hallway,) following the Medic outside. Engineer, still rattled, brought up the rear.

Outside, two large trucks loaded with crates were parked, with several crews of workmen busy unloading their cargo. Some of the crates were being hoisted into a loading dock, while others were being piled to the side. Many of the crates were stamped with either the R.E.D. logo or the words "PROPERTY OF MANN CO." The place, once so desolate, was now as busy as an anthill.

Several of the men, crates in arm and keychains jangling at their belts, brushed past the three mercenaries.

"Excuse me!" called the Medic to one of them. "Do any of you know vere ve can find ze medical facility?"

"Third door on the right, down the stairs, at the end of the hallway, " replied the man, without even looking. "Everything should be open now."

"Stupendous!" exclaimed the Medic. "Ve must go at once!"

* * *

><p>"Zis is unacceptable!" fumed the German, stomping his boot petulantly. "Vat is ze point? Some sort of joke?"<p>

The Medic and his large companion stood staring at a blank wall. They had followed the man's directions exactly.

"That is the vord, is it not?" said the Medic, thoughtfully. "Medical bay? Do you know?"

Heavy shrugged. "Sound good to me." He studied the wall for a moment, and then tapped on it three times.

There was a small whirring noise, and the wall suddenly began retracting into the side of the hallway, revealing a set of double doors with a sign reading "MEDICAL BAY" above them.

Medic was dumbfounded.

"How – vat – you –"

"I see in movie. _Ivan Gruschenov and the Forty Capitalists_. In state theatre, Red Square. Good film for children."

"Herr Heavy, you never cease to amaze me."

"_Da,_" replied the Heavy, and nodded knowingly.

Medic flung the doors open, and froze in the entryway.

"_Wunderbahl_," he breathed in ecstasy, and his eyes shone like a child's on Christmas morning.

"Doktor," said the Heavy behind him, "doktor, I cannot see…"

The German gave a very unmanly squeal and began to prance about the clinic. "So clean! So organized! Hoo hoo hoo!" He caressed a tray of scalpels fondly. "Ah, _kinder_, how I haff missed you!"

Heavy watched his friend with bemusement. He had no idea what the Medic was so excited about, but if he was happy, then Heavy was happy for him.

Medic continued to flitter about the room with excitement. "A laboratory for _mein_ experiments! Zis operating table – so huge! Und an office – vith a bed! I shall live in here! So many medications! Ha, look at zis!" He pointed to a respirator and several tanks of anesthetic. "How quaint! As if I vould actually require such a thing!"

"Shall I go get crates, now, doktor?" asked the Heavy.

"Yes, yes, of course," said the Medic absentmindedly. "Zis will be ze perfect spot for Archimedes to perch on over here… an x-ray machine! Amazing!"

Heavy shrugged in acceptance, and trudged back outside. Somewhere, in one of these boxes, Sasha slept, waiting for him to wake her…

* * *

><p>When Sniper first saw the Teufort Complex silhouetted against the horizon, he had thought it a butte, or some other strange geological formation. He hadn't realized it was a building until he got much closer, and seen the unmistakable R.E.D. logo on the side of the wall. About time, too. It was almost completely dark, save for an enormous full moon, and he needed to give his lanky frame a good stretch after being cooped up for so long.<p>

He pulled off onto the gravel in front of the entryway, listening to the familiar crunch, and took note of certain displacements in the ground. Two lorries, likely diesel-powered, judging by the few drips of petrol he could see reflecting his headlights. A number of people had been walking all over the area as well, but the prints were all mixed together, and would have been impossible to decipher even if he'd gotten out of the van to take a butcher's. Not that it mattered, of course. He wasn't on the job yet.

Killing the engine, Sniper removed his sunglasses and stuffed them into his vest pocket. He adjusted his hat to a more comfortable angle, grabbed the door handle, swung the door open, and stepped outside.

He made it about two steps before something let out a blood-curdling howl and leapt at him from the roof of his van.

Sniper's hair-trigger reflexes allowed him to turn around just in time to be flattened by 180 pounds of angry, black Scottish Cyclops. Gravel dug painfully into the back of his head. He instinctively struggled to wriggle from his assailant's grasp, but the Scot had him pinned.

"Ach," leered the Demoman, with a horrible grin. The combination of his blood-smeared face and the shadows cast by the moonlight made him look like some demon of Gaelic myth. "'Tis a fine evenin' tae meet an auld friend, aye?"

"Guh!" said Sniper, which was about all he could manage, given the Demoman was choking him. His mind was a frenzied panic as he desperately tried to pull DeGroot's hands away from his neck. _Can't breathe! Can't breathe! Get him off!_

"Aye, ah thought so too, laddie!" cackled the Demoman. "And ah jus' thought ah'd return th' favor!" He squeezed even harder, and Sniper felt his windpipe starting to crumple. "How's that feel, ye headshottin' Judas?"

Sniper scrabbled in the ground beneath him, his fingers searching for a rock, a stick, any weapon at all, but found nothing. He tried to scream for help, but not a sound came out save for a raspy gurgle.

"Ah, ha hah hah ha!" laughed the Scotsman. "Lookit yer wee eyes buggin' out, like a laddie on his first shag! That's a nice shade of purple yer skin's turnin' there!"

Sniper heard the taunts dimly, as though underwater. There was a loud ringing in his ears, and it was getting hard to see, the light was fading, fading away…

In his last moment of clarity, Sniper realized what he had to do. He drew his arm back, and poked the Demoman in the eye as hard as he could.

"AAUUUGHH!" screamed Tavish, releasing the Australian to clutch at his remaining eye. "YE EYE-GOUGIN' BASTID! AUGGHH!" He staggered backward, falling onto the camper van's hood.

Sniper gasped for air, massaging his bruised throat, as he coughed and wheezed. He managed to somehow get back on his feet, and slumped against the building wall for support.

"Thought… you could… surprise me, eh?" he panted. "Oi've eaten… rattlesnakes… tougher than you…"

The Demoman was getting back on his feet, his eye horrifically bloodshot. "Ah'm gonna kill ye, and kill ye, an' then ah won't have tae kill ye anymore, 'cus then ye're gonna be dead, ye bootlickin'-"

Sniper kicked him in the groin. He made sure to use the pointy part of his boot.

The color drained completely from the Scotman's face. "Ooooh…" he managed, clutching his stomach, before he puked and, with a groan, toppled face-first into the pool of his own sick.

"And that's how we do it in the bush!" growled Sniper, before collapsing to the ground. His nose was bleeding slightly, and he wiped it with the back of his hand. "Heh… heh heh… ahhh…"

Lights flickered on all around the base, blinding him, and he heard a door swing open and hurried footsteps. Someone shone a flashlight in his face.

"What in Sam Hill is goin' on here?" hollered the Engineer.


	5. Chapter 5: Epic Soldier Time

Chapter 5

Epic Soldier Time

The section of Springfield known as "Little Harlem" was home to a relatively prosperous African-American community, as the name would suggest. Jim Crow didn't visit much this far out in the Midwest, and so the black community was allowed to flourish "as long as they kept to themselves," to quote the chairman of City Hall.

There was one part of Little Harlem, though, that was safe for no man - white, black, or otherwise - and that part was known as the Downs, or more commonly, Skid Row. Only the poorest and most desperate people lived here, rubbing shoulders with the worst humanity had to offer on a daily basis. During the daytime, Skid Row was a ghost town – but at night, it turned into a wretched hive of vice. Only a madman would go willingly.

The postman of Little Harlem was perfectly sane, and hated the place. The denizens of the Downs mostly left him alone – he didn't carry any drugs or cash, and always came in broad daylight – but there was something so inherently unpleasant here, as if the amorality of the place had corrupted the very earth, and bleached the color out of the sky.

Most of the Downs didn't get mail – or couldn't even read, for that matter. But there was one man who seemed to have a subscription to every war-related magazine in the country, and it was at his door that the postman now stood, holding a letter in his sweaty palm, and waiting.

"Mista Doe? You in there?" asked the postman, knocking again tentatively. Wouldn't it be his luck if the bastard had died inside?

A sudden impact of hurled glass bottle against door made him flinch.

"GODDAMMIT!" screamed a voice from inside. "I PAID THE RENT ALREADY!"

"Easy, man! It's just the mail!" said the postman. "I got somethin' for ya!"

"Is it this month's _Guns and Haircuts_?" demanded the voice. "It can't be _Mercenary Monthly_, or _Soldier of Fortune_, as those came last week…unless it's this month's _Playboy_ with the Starlets and Stripes special! Oooh! Give me my mail now, that's a direct order!"

The sound of combat boots on newspaper was heard, and the room's occupant could be heard opening the multitude of locks from the inside.

The postman tried to catch a brief glimpse of part of the room before Jane Doe's hulking frame blocked his view completely, and saw an eyeless, badly damaged mannequin, dressed to resemble the Statue of Liberty. At least, he thought it was a mannequin… but it was hard to tell, with only a naked 30-watt bulb for illumination, whether those dark stains were chipped paint or dried blood…

On second thought, perhaps he didn't want to see the rest of the room.

"That's no magazine!" raged Soldier, snatching the letter from the postman's hand. "What in the name of Abraham Lincoln's bearded aunt is this?" He tore open the envelope, and scanned the contents furiously.

"R.E.D., defense contractor for the United States Government… recruiting top mercenaries and veterans… special mission for someone with your experience and expertise… generous salary… report to the Teufort Complex immediately…"

"Postman!" he exclaimed with joy. "Do you realize what this means?"

"You were offered a job?"

"My country NEEDS ME," grinned the Soldier, and his eyes shone with crazed glee. Charles Manson himself would have turned and ran.

The postman was made of sterner stuff – a man can get used to anything, given enough exposure – and stood his ground. "Well, that's swell, brother. Ain't easy for a vet to find a job, 'specially these days. Nobody but kids an' fools want to go to 'Nam."

He stopped talking, as he realized the Soldier was not listening. In fact, he seemed to be cross-eyed, and drooling slightly. Time to get going while the going was good.

"Nice talkin' to ya, Sarge. Take care now," he said, and picked his way back down the stairs, dodging the missing step and carefully avoiding the junkie passed out just inside the entryway. Worst part of the day was over. Jesus, he'd seen nicer crack houses than that apartment.

As the postman made his escape, Soldier snapped back to reality from whatever planet he'd been visiting. His shifty eyes darted to his makeshift shrine, and he removed his helmet reverently and placed his hand over his heart.

"Oh, sweet Lady Liberty," he whispered, "I knew you'd call for me again one day."

The mannequin stared at him, unmoved. Soldier stared back, into its empty sockets, waiting for an affirmation that would never come.

The floorboards creaked, and the pile of empty soup cans and whiskey bottles in the corner clinked as they shifted slightly. A fetid breeze blew in the shattered window, carrying sickly warmth and the smell of decaying garbage.

Jane Doe slapped his helmet back on his head and saluted the flag hanging on the wall.

"TODAY IS A GOOD DAY!" he screamed, to the silent room, to the ruined building, to the angry street, to the lonely ghetto, and no one heard him but the rats in the walls, and the postman, already a block away.

He threw back his head to the sky and laughed without smiling, and it was a terrible laugh born of madness, and the joy of slaughter.

The postman heard the laugh too, and felt a sudden chill, though the temperature was easily above 90 degrees. He shouldered his mailbag, and walked a little faster.

* * *

><p>Freshly shaved (and still bleeding from the many cuts he'd inflicted on his neck with the straight razor,) Sergeant Jane Doe marched down the street in his best (and only) uniform, stepping high over the piles of garbage that spilled onto the cracked sidewalk. He was looking for a military surplus store, but was having trouble finding one. To make matters worse, all the tattoo parlors, strip joints, dive bars, and crack houses were closed at this hour. There wasn't much else in the Downs.<p>

"Dammit!" muttered Soldier to himself. He was on the verge of heading to Smokey Ray's to console himself with a rack of ribs, when, as luck would have it, he spotted a pimp lounging on a nearby streetcorner. Relieved, he hurried toward him, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. To the casual observer, he looked like an addict about to get his fix.

"Quartermaster!" he barked. "I require all available weaponry, provisions, and supplies for a top-secret mission of utmost importance! And I will also need a vehicle!"

"Sure thing, my man," said the "quartermaster," feeling for his switchblade. "What 'choo need?"

"I have been authorized by the United States Government to pay whatever is necessary to obtain these supplies! Name your goods and your price!" The Soldier brandished a badly forged passport and a fistful of hundred-dollar bills.

"Well, s'cool, brotha, just relax. Don't be gettin' all twitchy on me, now. I got stuff for ya, sho'nuff." This was the first junkie he'd seen in a while that actually had some scratch on him. Zero let down his guard just a bit.

"See, now, for that cheese you got there, I can get you everythin' you want. I got some fine Cuban cee-gars, some reefer, and special powders of all kinds, you dig?"

"Powders!" exclaimed Soldier. "Do you mean vitamins! Chock-full of 100% American goodness, bringing pep and vigor to the wimpiest of men?"

"Yeah, sure, 'vitamins,' I got you, I got you. How much you want?"

"All of it!" proclaimed Soldier. "I will take every vitamin you possess, for I have a hot date with Lady Liberty tonight! And twelve of your cigars!"

"Alright, my man! Makin' time! Didn't think a cat like you was the ladies' type." Zero handed him several bags of white powdery substance, and a box of cigars, which he produced from the back of his car, a deep purple Chevrolet convertible with tailfins.

"How much for this civilian transport?" asked Soldier, eyeing the chrome bumpers.

"You crazy, honky," Zero said disgustedly. "The ride ain't fo sale, dig?"

"How much?" insisted the Soldier.

"Maan, I tole' you! Scram!"

"If you do not allow me to purchase this vehicle, you will be committing an act of treason against the United States of America!" proclaimed the Soldier, gesturing dramatically. "And as a representative of said authority-"

"You ain't no general! You ain't even no soldier. Just some raggedy ol' fool out of his damn mind. Ain't never been in no damn army. Now get outa here 'fore I cut your stupid ass."

He pulled out his keys and turned to open the car door. Soldier looked like he was about to have an aneurysm.

"You… you… dare… I earned every one of those medals I made! Lifetime… of service…you… you mutant maggot magnet…"

"And I bet yo girl's an ugly old bitch with the clap."

Those were the last words Zero ever said.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, Soldier pulled up in front of his apartment in his fine-looking new ride. A curiously head-sized cardboard box occupied the seat next to him, leaking a suspicious fluid all over the white leather upholstery.<p>

Hurrying inside, he reappeared shortly carrying several military-looking steamer trunks, which were deposited unceremoniously in the rear seats. He took a moment to make sure he was fully packed, and then hopped back into the driver's seat. "Locked and loaded, men! Let's go!"

Soldier had no idea where he was headed, save for that Teufort was in Arizona. And Arizona was… out west, somewhere? He'd find it eventually. And no way did he need a map – maps were for sissies. With America on his side, how could he lose?

The rest of the day went by in a blur. Soldier couldn't read while driving, but he could daydream, and he spent a good portion of the day trying to decide whether a .50 caliber Browning machine gun was superior to a rocket launcher. Sure, the joy of mowing down hordes of bloodthirsty Communists with bullets the size of a finger was exhilarating, but there was just something so _satisfying_ about watching the enemy explode, and his body parts rain down into the smoking crater where he'd been standing.

Then, just as the sun sank below the horizon completely, he had a fantastic idea. What if someone created a machine gun that fired rockets? It would be a two-in-one deal, and nothing could stand against it, not even alien spacecraft. He could picture the explosions now, lighting up the road like Fourth of July fireworks.

"As soon as I'm finished with this mission," he thought to himself, "I'll draw up some blueprints and get it patented. Or get some egghead to build it."

That was an even better idea. Get some scientists to science up something, take all the credit, and impress Lady Liberty something fierce. She'd want to meet him, and they'd have an evening out on the town together, have dinner with the President, and then they'd go back to his apartment to watch _Patton_, and he would make sweet, sweet love to her-

The engine sputtered and coughed, and Soldier snapped out of his reverie just in time to witness the little red light marked E come on next to the fuel gauge.

"NO!" he shouted. "No, no. no!" The car slowed to a crawl, engine cycling down as it went. "Don't you dare die on me, Lieutenant! Don't you dare!"

The vehicle rolled to a stop, the engine still puttering, barely.

"Hang in there, kid! You're gonna be ok!" shouted Soldier, his voice cracking in desperation as he pounded on the steering wheel. "Medic! MEDIC!"

The last drop of gasoline finally consumed, the engine choked, and died. The headlights dimmed, and went out.

"NOOOOOOO!" screamed Soldier dramatically, clutching the bloodsoaked cardboard box sitting next to him and pressing it against his chest. "WHY, GOD? WHY HIM? WHY?"

And then he saw it, and all thoughts of melodramatic war death scenes fled from his mind.

Rising above the desert like an electric moon, a brilliant neon sign displayed the words "THE FLANK STEAK - EATS – LIQUOR – GIRLS!" A scantily dressed cowgirl leaned against the words, holding a platter of barbequed pork ribs.

Soldier was awestruck.

"Dear God," said the psychopath, as he wiped a single tear from the corner of his eye, "I love America."

* * *

><p>The curious gray light that heralds the coming of the dawn illuminated the parking lot as a disheveled Soldier staggered outside, wearing a pair of black lacy panties over top of his helmet. He was also sporting a black eye, several scratchmarks, a vicious hangover, and a considerably lighter wallet.<p>

"And STAY OUT, ya horn-doggin' Mongloid brute!" howled an ugly old crone, hurling an empty whiskey bottle at the back of his head. It fell short, and shattered at his heels. He turned around slowly. "Ya scairt mah girls half to death!"

"Joke's on you, HAG!" yelled Soldier, wincing at the volume of his own voice. "I got my hangover cure after all!" Pulling the underwear off his head, he balled it up and threw it on the ground in defiance.

"GIT!" she shrieked. "Nex' time ah see ya, shoot ya dead, varmint!"

As the door slammed shut, Soldier sat down, and after a bit of thought, stuffed the underwear back into one of his pockets. He then rummaged in his coat until he had assembled a ménage of ingredients: a raw egg, coffee grounds, Tabasco sauce, some cloves, salt, and a sliver of bar soap. Mixing it all together in a whiskey tumbler with just a few drops left in it, he eyed the mess reluctantly, and then swallowed it all in a single gulp.

Forcing himself not to puke, he stood back up to a chorus of derisive laughter. Three Army men – young men, really – stood nearby leaning against the front of an open-top jeep, smoking cigarettes and regarding him with amusement.

"Ha," laughed the one. "This dude's crazy as hell, man. You see that face? Priceless."

"Man, I'm surprised they even let him in," said the second. "Took four bouncers to take him down when he tried to get after the girls on stage. Didn't they ever tell you look but don't touch, moron?"

"And then he snuck back in, didn't he? After closing… greatest generation my ass."

Soldier felt a surge of rage, or maybe it was just nausea. Either way, he wasn't going to let these slovenly mistakes of nature make a fool out of him. He shoved the tumbler back into one of his many pockets, and straightened his helmet.

"You WILL show respect in the presence of a superior officer, MAGGOTS!" he snapped. Ah, now he could feel the cure starting to work…

"Oooh, I'm soo scared!" taunted the first, who appeared to be the ringleader. "Don't hurt me, you stupid drunk!"

"Yeah, what are you gonna do, puke on us?" said the second. "Come on, General Asshole. Go home to the VA or somethin'."

"Fag," said the third, dismissively.

Jane Doe's face turned crimson. "Your mouth has just written a check that your butt will find un-cashable, pal!" He stumbled towards his car, and the soldiers watched him go.

"What's he doing?"

"Probably going to give us KP or something," sniggered the first.

Soldier pulled something out of the back of the vehicle, and as he returned, they saw it was a short-handled, collapsible shovel.

"You see this?" asked Soldier. "See this shovel?"

"Yeah…"

Soldier swung it as hard as he could, and smashed the second in the face with a resounding CLANG. As he staggered backward, Soldier hit him a second time, and a third. Blood spattered all over the jeep's front as he crumpled to the ground, stunned. His two companions stared in shock.

"Got anything FUNNY to say about THAT, FUNNYMAN?" Soldier bellowed at the first.

"You fuck-" managed the first before he was cut off by Soldier's fist in his solar plexus. Unable to breathe, he was finished off with a jaw-breaking uppercut and knocked cold.

The third ran for his life, but Soldier wasn't finished yet.

"COME BACK HERE, YOU SPINELESS WORM!" screamed Soldier, chasing after him. "I WILL STRANGLE YOU WITH YOUR OWN FRILLY TRAINING BRA!"

But youth and sheer terror were on his quarry's side, and Soldier could not keep up. After a few laps around the parking lot, he decided to change tactics.

Without breaking stride, he hurled his whiskey glass at his target. The tumbler flew true, and whistled through the air to strike the young man in the back of his head with a sickening crunch. He collapsed to the ground, and did not move.

"BOO-YAH!" shouted Soldier, as he came to a halt. Whew. That little bastard sure could run. Either they were getting faster, or he was getting slower. He looked around to see if anyone had witnessed his glorious triumph. No one? Well, he'd celebrate his own way, then.

Soldier beat his chest and let loose a bloodcurdling war cry in tribute to his victory. Then he lit a cigar and took a satisfied puff.

"You've done me proud, boys!" he said to Shovel. "The corps needs more men like you!"

Shovel dripped blood in agreement.

* * *

><p>Private Wally was a lightweight when it came to drinking, so when he and his buddies had borrowed a jeep to make a trip to the Flank Steak, he was out cold by the time the floor show started. Pals always looked out for one another, so his friends had dutifully dragged him back outside and left him in the jeep to sleep it off.<p>

Now he was having a very strange dream. He was playing with his dog back home in Illinois. But it wasn't his dog. It looked like his dog, but wasn't his dog, and the not-dog was licking his face, and he wished it would stop…

He opened his eyes, and found himself face-to-face with the severed head of an African-American man, tongue lolling out grotesquely.

Wally shrieked in horror, and instinctively punched the head. It bounced off the windshield and tumbled off the jeep, disappearing into the side of the road.

"Wakey wakey, lazybones!" crowed a voice next to him. "You're in the Army now, sleep when you're dead!"

Wally looked around frantically. "Jim! Robby! Donnie? Where are you guys? What's going on? Oh, God!" he exclaimed, seeing Soldier. "Who are you? Where are my friends? What did you do to them?" he added, eyes widening in horror as he noticed the bloodstains on Soldier and the jeep. "Oh my God! This can't be happening! Oh God!"

"Calm down, son! I know it's not everyday you get to meet a great war hero like me, but keep your shirt on! And you will address me as sir!"

"My friends, my friends! Where are they?"

"You mean those disrespectful AWOL mouth-breathers whose jeep you are in? Probably dead," said Soldier, indifferently. "I beat some sense into them. Oh, yes I did," and he shook his head as though recalling a fond memory, and chuckled nastily.

The color drained out of Wally's face.

"P-p-please don't kill me!" he cried.

"Why the hell would I do that?" shouted Jane Doe. "The objective is not to die for your country, but to make the other bastard die for his! Ha! Ha! Ha!" He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, now coated with a white powdery substance.

"Can't you just let me go home, then?"

"No sir! You have just been requisitioned for my top-secret mission of paramount national importance! Duty calls, private, duty calls!"

The recruit thought quickly. "Well, I really need to take a leak, sir. Pull off to the side of the road for just a sec."

"We can't stop here!" yelled the Soldier, flailing wildly in the air with one hand as he gripped the steering wheel with the other.

"W-why not, sir?"

"This is BAT COUNTRY!" he shouted, cigar stub nearly falling out of his mouth. He grabbed the bag of drugs from his pocket and brandished them in poor Private Wally's face. "Take some vitamins! They'll make you feel GREAT!"

"Oh my god," moaned Wally to himself, "he's insane, he's insane, he's completely insane…" He curled up in a fetal position and began to rock back and forth.

"Snap out of it, maggot!" roared the Soldier above the engine. He spat out his cigar stub, and slapped Wally in the face several times. "The General Patton face-slap! Tried and tested method for restoring morale! We've got a war to fight, soldier!"

He took another large snort from the bag, and his nose began to bleed. Some of it trickled down onto his lips, and he licked it absentmindedly.

"Think of the glory! The medals! The ticker-tape parades! Ladies love a man in uniform!"

"They do?" asked Wally, incredulously. He had seen the draft-card burnings, the hippie chicks, and their chants of "Girls say yes to boys who say no!"

"Oh, yes yes yes!" cackled Jane Doe. "You shall return home, weary with battle, and the lovely Lady Liberty shall greet you at the door! Her hair, falling past her shoulders like amber waves of grain, her full, red lips parted with passion, her generous, heaving bosoms bared for you and you only, her alabaster thighs slick with desire for your American manhood-"

"Okay, I get it, I get it! Gee whiz!"

"Damn straight!" cheered the Soldier, and lit another cigar.

A few minutes went by, and Jane began to become irritated with his silent passenger. New recruits were supposed to be rowdy, hungry for the glory of battle, and eager to prove themselves! Not pale-faced, tired, and shaking with fear! What was Private Twinkletoes' problem, anyway?

Well, by God, he had a solution. And if that didn't work, he'd pull out his little dog-eared copy of _The Art of War_ and find ANOTHER solution. Sun Tzu had never let him down yet.

"Let's have some music, boys! Something for the soul!" He turned on the radio, and the soulful crooning of Etta James met their ears.

_At last,_

_My love has come along, _

_My lonely days are over, _

_And life is like a song! _

A memory came back to Jane, one he'd thought almost forgotten.

He'd just turned eighteen, and he'd been walking for hours: hungry, wet, and cold. Nowhere to go, no place to stay, no direction at all, and the gray rain poured down.

Strange thoughts and whisperings filled his mind. Most of them, he could ignore. Some spoke of sleep for all eternity, others nearly incoherent with fury, urging him to unspeakable acts. Still others babbled endless strings of numbers and images, nonsensical and alien. And now they grew louder and more insistent, and he began to listen.

Then he'd come out of the alleyway, into the warm glow of a streetlamp, and there she was, the woman who had changed his life forever.

_Oohh, yeah, at last! _

_The skies above are blue, _

_And my heart was wrapped up in clover, _

_The night I looked at you,_

She stood there with her arm outstretched, beseeching him for help. A beautiful woman, feminine yet strong, a Valkyrie holding a sword with one hand, but still in need of aid, calling her allies to battle. Below her, the words were written: "Lady Liberty needs your help to beat the Axis! Don't let her down, boys – strike a blow for democracy! Enlist Today!" And as the man who would become Soldier stared in wonder, he heard a great rushing of the voices in his head, and then, miraculously, silence. No sound but his own breathing, and the endless rain.

_I found a dream that I could speak to,_

_A dream that I could call my own,_

_I found a thrill to press my cheek to,_

_A thrill that I had never known! _

There were others, too. Brave men, heroically charging the enemy in strange and distant lands – "See the World Today! Join the Marines!" Mighty tanks rumbling over the battlefield – "Right Makes Might – U.S. Armored Cavalry." Titanic battleships dominating the seas – "U.S. Navy – Keeping the Seas Safe." And "Be Patriotic – Buy War Bonds," and "I Want You for the U.S. Army," and an endless plethora of posters covering the wall next to the recruiting office. But it was her he kept getting drawn back to, and he realized he'd fight the forces of Hell itself for her sake.

All night he waited at the recruiting office, and when the retired drill sergeant came to open up the place at exactly 0700 hours, he was waiting with a grin on his face.

_You smiled, oh, you smiled,_

_Oh, and then the spell was cast_

_And here we are in heaven,_

_For you are mine…. at last!_

Dawn spread over the desert, casting its rosy pink tinges across the landscape. The jeep sped south, to untold glory and adventure, and the promise of things yet to come.

* * *

><p>"A-MERRR-ica, a-MERRR-ica, bloodshed in praise of thee,<p>

And SENNNND Hitler's HEAD, now THAAAT he's DEAD,

In a BOX for ALL to SEEEEEE!"

Private Wally lay slumped in his seat, the very picture of despair. He had been listening to his captor mangle patriotic songs in his off-key, gravelly voice for hours now, and had given up all hope of escape for the time being.

He watched as the loony grabbed another handful of white powder, shoveled it into his mouth, and chuckled maniacally to himself. Not only was the freak a nutter, but a drug addict too? And probably a sexual deviant… He clenched his sphincter instinctively, and shuddered.

"Sing along if you know the words, men! Jingle Bells, Hitler smells, Stalin laid an egg-"

"Hey, mister-"

"YOU WILL ADDRESS ME AS SIR MAGGOT IS THAT CLEAR!" screamed Soldier in a sudden rage. Wally caught a glimpse of furrowed brow and bloodshot, crazed eyes. If he wanted to live, he realized, he'd have to play along.

"Sir, permission to speak, sir!"

"Permission to speak granted, Private!" snapped Soldier. "Keep it short!"

"We may require additional supplies for our mission, sir! Food, water, ammunition, and the vehicle is running low on fuel! I would recommend stopping at a gas station in order to optimize chances of success, sir!"

Soldier thought for a moment, took some more white powder, and thought some more. Then he laughed with glee.

"By George Washington's dentures! You've read the great Sun Tzu's works as well! Excellent! You deserve a medal, boy! We shall commandeer supplies at the very next opportunity!"

"Fueling station ahead, sir!" said Wally with fake zeal, pointing ahead on the horizon to a Gas-N-Go.

"Good work, Private!" cried Soldier.

"May I say what an honor it has been serving with you, sir," added Wally, and then wished he hadn't. Don't overdo it, man, don't overdo it…

But Jane Doe beamed with pride, and puffed up his chest. "That's the spirit! Extra K-rations for you tonight!"

The jeep pulled off the highway into the gas station parking lot, and Soldier stopped it next to the pump before leaping out. "Refuel this vehicle, private, on the double! I shall pay inside, and honor the all-American institution of small business by purchasing sundry items and consumables!"

And without further ado, he clicked his boot heels together, saluted the American flag hanging from the awning, and paraded into the little store. The front was mostly plate glass, so Wally could see the Soldier marching through the aisles as though reviewing new recruits. His heart sank. There was no way he'd be able to run away – the Soldier would spot him, and where would he go without a vehicle? The loony had the keys in his pocket, damn him.

He stepped out of the jeep slowly, and began to refill the tank, listening to the tick-tick-tick of the meter. 35¢ a gallon? Gee whiz, that was expensive – oh come on! Here he was, kidnapped by some sort of nutter, and worrying about the price of gas? Think! Think!

As he racked his brains, a van with a large peace symbol painted on the side pulled into the lot and parked a few yards away. Several men got out, in various states of undress. They appeared to be policemen who were in the process of disguising themselves as hippies.

"Hey!" said Wally, trying to get their attention without being too loud. "Hey! Cops! Over here!"

"Shhh!" said one, who was wearing a tie-dye bandanna on his head. "You'll blow our cover!"

"You're not even in cover yet!" hissed Wally. "I need your help! I've been kidnapped by a crazy guy who thinks he's an Army officer or something! He's completely bonkers!"

"I've heard this story before," said the officer. "I'm not going to take you from your sergeant just so I can get chewed out by some base commander. Not happening again, no way."

Wally gave a quick glance at the storefront window. Soldier was still inside, now screaming at the attendant, something about how he wasn't going to pay a goddamned cent for anything not made in America, and demanding an apology from the terrified man.

"C'mon fellas, please! This isn't a joke, honest! This guy's not my sergeant! He's some sort of mental patient!" He began walking towards them. "Look on the front of the jeep! That's blood! Look at him in the store! Does that look like normal to you?"

* * *

><p>"B-b-but sir," stammered the attendant, "all my goods are American-made, except for the sombrero – it wouldn't be authentic if it wasn't Mexican-"<p>

"I DON'T CARE!" bellowed the Soldier, spraying him with spittle. "One bad apple is all it takes to spoil the whole barrel! Just! One! Apple!" He paused for breath, and to wipe his lips.

"Please, mister," quavered the attendant, mopping his brow furiously with a handkerchief, "just – just go. Take whatever you want, just – leave, please."

Jane Doe tilted his head back to make eye contact, and the attendant could almost feel the madness and fury radiating from his eyes.

"I'll let you off with a warning, civilian," growled the Soldier, "but remember." He began to slowly back out the door, in a creepy, puppet-like fashion, while continuing to stare.

"One-" his hand grasped the door handle, "-bad-" the door jerked open, "-apple-" and he was gone.

"Goodness," breathed the attendant, dabbing at his face with the hankerchief. "Oh goodness, I'd better call the police, he's a madman-"

WHUMP.

The attendant shrieked, as Soldier had pressed his hands and face against the outside of the glass, smearing traces of blood across the window. He mouthed the words "I'm watching you," grinned horribly, and disappeared once more.

Satisfied, Soldier walked back to the jeep and dumped several cans of pork and beans, a copy of _Playboy's Starlets and Stripes Spectacular_, and a fifth of Jack Daniels into the back of the vehicle, completely failing to notice the hippie van parked less than 15 yards away.

"Hey, up and at 'em, boys! Your beloved Sergeant has brought something back for you worthless grunts – no one here? Well, more for me, then!" He poured the contents of the bottle into his canteen, looked up, and saw Private Wally talking with some men crowded around a van.

"Private, I did not give you permission to leave the vehicle – OH MY GOD! HIPPIES!" screamed the Soldier. He grabbed his shovel from the back of the jeep and charged towards the officers. "ATTAAAAAACK!"

The policemen saw a brute hurtling toward them; psychotic features caked with blood and suspicious white powder, clutching a gore-spattered entrenching tool, and screaming bloody murder.

They reacted quite naturally: that is to say, they whipped out their revolvers and began blazing away.

"HOLY SHIT!" yelled the Soldier, and he turned around so fast he nearly lost his helmet. "RETREAT! RETREAT!" He scrambled pell-mell for the safety of the jeep.

A .38 Special magnum round whistled past his neck so close he felt the heat from it. Another tore through his coat pocket, spilling the "vitamins" all over the asphalt. A third ripped through his shoulder, but he felt no pain, and reaching the vehicle, he dove into the driver's seat headfirst. Slug after slug ripped through the jeep's frame, cracking the windshield, puncturing the metal sides. One of the tires popped, torn to shreds by the fusillade. A hole appeared in Soldier's canteen, and whiskey soaked the seat of his pants.

"DRIVE! DRIVE!" howled Soldier, forgetting he was the only occupant of the vehicle. He fumbled for the ignition, and, miraculously, the jeep started instantly. Soldier floored the accelerator, and the trusty made-in-America automobile tore out of the gas station like a bat out of hell, leaving behind one scared private and six angry cops.

"What," said the one with the tie-dye bandana, "the hell, was that?"

* * *

><p>The merciless desert sun had passed its zenith, but its scorching gaze continued to burn all it fell upon. The air over the asphalt shimmered and waved, as a lone jeep made its way along the road, swerving between the lanes.<p>

Soldier's helmet was now too hot to touch. Sweat poured down his face, leaving tracks in the mingled smears of grease, blood, dirt, and cocaine. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his trenchcoat, and managed to get most of the filth off. Dark stains of sweat were already spreading across his chest and back.

"Hippies with guns," growled Soldier in disbelief. "Hippies with guns! Those scum-sucking fruitbasket traitors! What will they think of next? Artillery? I must report this to the President at once!"

He fumbled with his coat pocket, and found the ragged remnants of the bag of "vitamins."

"Dammit!" he swore bitterly. "Out of rations!" He stuck his hand in the bag in a vain attempt to find any last bits, and withdrew it drenched in blood.

"Huh?" he asked, confused, and then realized he'd been shot in the shoulder.

"OWWWIEE!" he screamed, and slammed on the brakes. The jeep came to a screeching halt in the middle of the roadway.

"Pain is weakness leaving the- ow! Jesus Joseph Mary Mother of God, that hurts! I do not have time to bleed!"

Rummaging in the back of the jeep, he found his first aid kit, and shook the contents out. A syringe of morphine and a roll of bandages bounced into his seat.

Soldier slipped off his trenchcoat, grabbed the syringe and injected its contents into his neck without hesitation. "Aaah, morphine! Best medicine in the world – and made in the good ol' USA!" He began wrapping his injured shoulder in bandages, and once finished, pinned them in place with the used needle. "Good as new!"

He slipped his filthy, ragged trenchcoat back over his sweat-soaked body, and licked his cracked lips pensively. "Sure hope the boys have some whiskey and ice water waiting for me back at camp…"

Somewhere in the distance behind him, the faint sound of sirens could be heard.

"Those BASTARDS," gasped Soldier, in horror and outrage. "They stole a police car!"

* * *

><p>The moon's silvery light was the first thing Soldier noticed. The second thing he realized was that he was upside-down. In a jeep. This would not do. Jeeps were not supposed to be upside down!<p>

He struggled out from underneath the vehicle, and felt something wet trickle down his face. Warm and salty. Was it barbeque sauce? Had the hippies tried to eat him? He couldn't remember – he'd heard sirens, and then, nothing…

Well, if it WAS barbeque sauce, the goddamn hippies sucked at cooking. Why, if he didn't know better, he'd say it tasted like blood! Hippies truly were the lousiest foe in the rogue's gallery that threatened America. They didn't even have delicious beer and hotdogs, like the Nazis did.

He turned and saw a police car, its front end wrapped around a massive saguaro, radiator fluid and gasoline puddled around its tires. Hmm. How did that get there?

As his eyes adjusted to the muted light, he could see two figures slumped in their seats. They could have both been slumbering peacefully, if not for their bloodsmeared faces, shiny as the badges clipped to their chests. Police officers? Why were there two police officers-

And then it all came back to him.

The escape from the hippie ambush through the noble sacrifice of Private Twinkletoes, then sirens wailing, a breakneck chase across the desert. The van, no doubt planted by enemy agents, ramming him off the side of the road. The hippies had known he was injured, and had intended to finish him off with their newfound knowledge of guns, but they had underestimated the fighting spirit of the American man!

Those police officers weren't really policemen at all, he realized. They were shape-shifting hippies disguised as police officers! No defender of public safety would ever try to stop a hero like him from completing his mission!

But then how had he flipped his jeep? There was only one thing that could flip a jeep and make a man forget how he did it – a confusion ray. And only one enemy of liberty had such technology -

"GODDAMN ALIENS!" Soldier screamed, shaking his fist at the moon. "TEAMING UP WITH HIPPIES! BASTARDS! WHEN I CATCH YOU, I'LL STICK MY BOOT SO FAR UP YOUR ASS YOU'LL TASTE SHOE POLISH!"

The moon said nothing, and Soldier's voice was lost in the vastness of the desert sky.

"Hrmmph," said Soldier, after a moment's pause. "Cowards."

He stood up, and grimaced. Yes, that was definitely a broken rib or three. And something was wrong with his ankle. With his mobility compromised, he needed a gun.

His eyes caught the glimmer of gunmetal behind the shattered windshield of the police car. It appeared one of the hippies had smashed the windshield with his head, judging by all the blood. Why, there was enough blood to start a blood bank! He could get rich!

But the mission came first, he reminded himself. Duty called. Lady Liberty was depending on him, and he needed that shotgun more than those dead hippies did.

At least, he hoped they were dead.

Soldier reached into the police car cautiously. Normally, hippies were weak and ineffective fighters, but when cornered they could give a nasty bite. Even worse, if a hippie bit you, you'd turn into one of them…

His fingers grasped the butt of the shotgun, and he quickly unclipped it from the dash and pulled it out. The police radio suddenly squawked, startling him, and he nearly dropped the gun.

"Dispatch to 5-0, confirm your location, over."

Soldier froze.

"Dispatch to 5-0, please respond. Backup will arrive shortly at last known location. Over."

He stared at the two officers intently, and backed away. Time to get going, before more showed up. Hippies could be dangerous in large enough numbers. He checked to see if the shotgun was loaded. It was.

In the distance, lights shone from a large complex. A fort, perhaps! Excellent! He could recover, resupply –

Then a horrible thought occurred to him. What if it was a hippie fort? There were all kinds of weird things out here in the desert: burning men, communes, spiders that did cartwheels… It was bat country, after all.

He'd have to be cautious. Inspect the perimeter, determine if the occupants were allies, and act accordingly. Reconnaissance wasn't his strong suit, but if wheelchair-bound old FDR could be a cyborg ninja assassin in his spare time, then so could he.

He smiled grimly, and began limping along towards the base.

* * *

><p>Scout sat on the toilet, and pulled his backpack open. Glancing at the door once more to reassure himself that it was locked, he giggled to himself in anticipation, and pulled out a battered, dog-eared copy of <em>Playboy<em> magazine. Finally, he could spend some quality time with a bevy of babes. No more freakin' interruptions from Ma bangin' on the door askin' if he was sick, no more brothers busting in to try to catch him, no more - wowee, look at the legs on that chick!

He pulled out the centerfold to get a better look at lovely Miss March 1964, and that was when the bathroom window shattered.

Shards of frosted glass flew everywhere, followed by a nightmare that forced itself through the opening. A hulking brute, clad in the filthy, tattered remains of a trenchcoat, with his oversized helmet tilted back to reveal sunken, bloodshot eyes and a maniacal leer, picked himself up off the tile. The creature held a gore-spattered shotgun, and, as it pumped a new shell into the chamber, gave a terrifying laugh that sounded more like escaping steam than merriment.

Scout's mouth fell open, and he stared at the horrible figure before him, which was now pointing the shotgun directly at his head.

"AAAAAH!" screamed Scout.

"AAAAAAH!" screamed Soldier, right back at him. "DO NOT LOOK AT ME! I DID NOT ASK YOU A QUESTION!"

Pandemonium ensued.


End file.
